


matching shadows with cowards

by Ghostigos



Series: se corri con lupi [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Gang Violence, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Mafia AU, Mild Sexual Content, On the Run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 17:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Moomin doesn't know many things right now — like how he ended up in middle of nowhere with a busted bike and a boy he found dying in the alleyway, or why him and said boy are being constantly and relentlessly pursued across the country so they can repay their fathers’ debts.But if Snufkin doesn't wish to elaborate, than Moomin can only follow his lead and hope that they'll find something, or someone, to fix their situation.(Alt: In which the Oshun Oxtra had less-than-favorable ventures on the streets of Italy, and their kin reap the consequences)





	matching shadows with cowards

**Author's Note:**

> (_oh [lazarus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xz5Mx3a8kRw), how did your debts get paid?_ — know the prayer of fury, and know more that it has always belonged to you)
> 
> content warnings for implications of gang torture/gang rape, and some period-typical attitudes on transphobia (story is set in the 90's)
> 
> note for the formatting: this story will jump from present to past so every time you see '-', just keep that in mind.

The sweat on your brow is salty and seeps into your worn bandages, giving you a sharp twinge of pain as you operate the machinery. In no way are you as qualified for this work of work as your ex, but six months of on-again-off-again seemed to have you inherit _some_ of the basics for fixing up a motorcycle.

Still, you're working with the bare minimum of supplies here — any big tool kits were discarded to keep the bike from giving out (and even though Snufkin denies it to death, you know your weight is something of a hindrance for the bike's stamina; it's not something you really wallow over but at times like these you do wonder).

With a huff, you shimmy yourself out from under the engine, grimacing at the sand coating up your shirt. You sit up, wiping your brow with a greased hand, and turn to Snufkin.

He's seated himself against your luggage, reading what looks to be a tourist guide — must've picked it up on the way out of the last gas station. Although his bouncing leg gave away his cool façade; you're nice enough to not mention it.

He looks up. "Any luck?"

"Um..." The sub-par work you've just done makes you feel like the bike could collapse in seconds; it's hard to swallow back another 'I don't know'. You try to feign insight as best you're able, though. "My best guess is that it's flooded — we're gonna have to remove the spark plugs and see what that does for us. Can you, ah, hand me a wrench, please?"

Snufkin fishes behind him a moment into the smaller compartments of your bags, before tossing you the tool in question. He quickly returns to his reading.

You remark on the unfamiliarity of the wrench. "This looks new. Is this something you pocketed while we were shopping?"

"No."

"Snufkin."

"Maybe."

You sigh. "Look. I know you're trying to help, but...maybe refrain from shoplifting so much? We're not that desperate yet."

Snufkin pries his attention away from the booklet to give you a mild look. "Our engine won't start and we're stuck in a desert with limited rations."

"Yes, but—"

His leg shakes so violently that he springs to his feet, dropping the guide in the process. His gaze is dark but it's not cruel, perhaps more of a hurt locked beneath offense.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," Snufkin says.

He grabs his canteen — well, your shared canteen — and walks off with it. His stomping crunches the sand beneath his heel and you watch him kick at a rock in his path.

Despite, you give him a sympathetic frown with his back turned. Tossing the stolen wrench about in your palm, you crouch back under the bike and return to your work.

-

Here's what you know:

Mamma and Pappa are good people. You know this because bad people don't have a shop chipped with blue paint and a red roof you can picnic off of on clear nights. Bad people don't run bakeries and give the daily leftovers to the less fortunate in town; they don't carve brilliant works in the backroom to sell off, and they don't design gift baskets for the more destitute neighbors.

You live in a bad town, filled with bad people, but Mamma and Pappa were so different from those folk that you'd never thought twice about considering them exceptions. Your family was a beacon of hope, supplied through Mamma's cooking and Pappa's handiwork; they're a momentary haven away from the outside troubles. They were exempt from any retribution because their actions were good, and their intentions were pure.

_You'd_ thought so.

But in hindsight they were your example for principles, so of course you'd view your own parents through rose-tinted glasses — especially when the world outside your doorstep was so run-down and cruel. They were a speck of goodness in a poverty-filled hometown where ex-criminals resided on their last legs; maybe that left you feeling superior to everyone too, since your meals were always warm and your clothes ironed.

What you don't know is what happened on that night in the alleyway, when you were taking out the trash from your father's workshop and saw someone hurting; the concern possessed you like second nature. This poor boy was wearing ragged, secondhand clothes not uncommonly found where you reside, but you hadn't seen him before. He hobbled aimlessly into your outstretched arms and leant all his weight into your torso — which wasn't much, considering how scarily thin he was.

Your eyes widened at the thick plume of red blossoming on the boy's shoulder.

Even with his hand gripped over the wound, the blood seeped from his fingers and filled the air with a coppery stench. Gleaned with sweat and tears, his head sank into the crook of your neck from exhaustion; you'd feared the worst but his rabbit-like heartbeat thudded so loudly against your torso — his body must've been working overtime to keep him alive.

The blood seeped into your own clothes from where you were holding him; Mamma would really wonder now, so you supposed there was no choice. As gently as you could, you ferried the boy inside. He was unresponsive but you assured him in haste that he would live. Mamma was an expert on stitching up wounds and he'd be better in no time.

What you don't know — and what you're still trying to understand — is everything after.

-

Your newest recruit, Too-Ticky, had insisted on analyzing your next course of action before you executed it. You explained that your current scheme is crossing the country line to escape the pursuers — and state police, you suppose — or at the least lose them long enough to recuperate, but she insisted that you showed her the precise route.

Her forethought is appreciated, truly, but when she gets nitpicky like this you grow frustrated. She's a good asset, and her trailer is nice and her food is good, but _yeesh_ is she a bother when she wants to be.

Too-Ticky reads over the maps quietly and with a keen eye. She puffs more smoke from her pipe in your direction, and you're courteous enough to refrain from coughing.

Snufkin is patient, but you are not. You detest people that withhold from speaking their thoughts, especially when they go quiet at the worst times. From the week spent restocking your supplies in Too-Ticky's home, you find it unnecessary when she answers your questions with more questions, or provides something of a riddle in response.

If she weren't so eerily-knowledgeable of your situation, and more so gracious about it, you would've stomped back out into the middle of nowhere days ago.

Ten minutes pass — you're glaring at the clock — before you give in and leave the room. You'll wait outside in the searing heat if you must, anything to get away from Too-Ticky's smelly pipe.

You sit down in the living room — the place is small enough that you can stretch your legs and they touch the opposite end. You hear her call, "No feet on the walls!" and you grumble before snapping your foot back down.

You know you're being needlessly sour; you wish you could trust Too-Ticky like Snufkin does, but...you can't, not yet. And isn't that fair? From being chased down by terrible men all the time to your frigid relations back home...you think you have every right to be wary of people right now. And sure, Too-Ticky is nice, but this all _reeks_ of a sham. And from your firsthand experience with betrayal, well, you'd rather stay alert.

Snufkin appears at the doorfront a minute later. He stands outside the room a second, monitoring your defeated slump on the couch, before stepping in. He sits next to you and stretches out his back before, hesitantly, resting his head into the crook of your armpit. Your arm is raised to coax him in and encases him by the waist.

"A penny for your thoughts," Snufkin implores.

You almost breathe a sharp laughter, but decide that it's a bit of a rude reaction. "Mine are a nickel at best."

He throws his head back to peer at you. "A nickel for them, then? I consider myself a worthy bargainer."

"Now that's a waste of a nickel right there."

"A dime. Try me."

You do sigh, here. "What makes you think there's anything wrong?"

Snufkin gives a humorless laugh. "Well, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there's plenty of things wrong that you have every right to be moping about."

Well, you can't argue there, no matter how badly you wish to. You'd hoped your bad temper would fly overhead, but it seems transparent under Snufkin's eye — and Too-Ticky's too, probably. Another sigh is upheld, this one much grouchier.

"I feel guilty," you admit.

"For?"

"For not trusting her!" You gesture to the room over, feeling an immediate flood of shame because she's most certainly listening, so you lower your voice. "It's just...she _is_ nice, and I'm glad that she's helping us, but...it's too soon."

You can't elaborate; it's too much to reflect on right now.

Snufkin's gaze doesn't stray away from your own. "Are you thinking of your father?"

You just look away, giving a nod.

You half-expected a bout of assurances to follow suit, however dull and half-assed they might be. So it's a bit disappointing when you receive none, but in hindsight of course you wouldn't. What do you expect him to say? That you're nothing like your father? That there's hardly a reason to be so angry, especially not with family?

Instead, you break the silence by murmuring, "I don't want us to steal any more money."

"I know," Snufkin answers.

"I'm going to be mad if you and her are planning to rob more people."

"I know," he repeats, a little softer.

"Does me saying that make you want to do it _any_ less?"

Snufkin puts his head down so he can look at the carpet; a thumb rubs idly along the lengths of your arm. "Would you feel better if I said 'somewhat'?"

"It's not the answer I want."

"Then I can't answer you at all."

You fold your chapped lips, further aggravated; being crowned the most ethically-sound of your crew is a bit lonely at times, being constantly overpowered by the more ruthless party members. Maybe you just don't have the taste for crime yet, and it's something you'll have to grow into. Or maybe this nagging shame won't get better at all.

Both thoughts are dreadful.

Too-Ticky calls you back in a while later; she graciously pretends to have not overheard your conversation and instead rehearses her new tactic. It's a route you hadn't considered taking because it's too long to drive on with the gas left in your tank — but, seems that if you can stock up on enough (_stolen_) fuel and cross your fingers it should be a clean getaway to the neighboring region. Then you can get out of this god-forsaken desert. Maybe even lose some of the gang if you're lucky.

This is all just a 'what-if', though. _If_ you can get on that road without trouble, _if_ you can make it out without encountering anybody, _if_ transitioning to a new region will solve anything.

But Snufkin seems pleased about it, so you can pretend to be pleased too.

-

The boy first explained that he'd been shot point-blank on the shoulder. He later said his name is Snufkin.

The wound in his shoulder was just a graze, but it stung like hell and Mamma said his tissue was busted up pretty bad. Nevertheless your mother was diligent through the process of cleaning the wound, unfazed by all the blood that made yourself woozy. You would've retreated to your room a long time ago but Snufkin had clutched your arm so tightly as he bit back screams, so you were forced to stay.

After he was patched up, Snufkin was sent to your spare guestroom and the sedatives knocked him out quickly; you didn't get a chance to ask him more about what happened, and your parents opted to let him speak about it when he was ready.

Although you're weary around wounds, you were still instructed to help out in trashing old bandages and handing off medications. A couple of days passed before Snufkin was cognitive enough to be distressed, and you calmly relayed to him what your parents said about his condition. You told him he was safe now, but he kept shaking his head and reaching over to itch at his wrapped shoulder, as his wounded arm was out of commissions. You had to clamp his hand to the mattress so he couldn't prod at himself.

You offered Snufkin some of your older clothes and got him to wear your oldest plaid pajamas and tank top — he said he didn't like new things. His apparel was all bloodied and caked with dirt so Mamma had no issue trashing them.

As you helped him with his tank top with your eyes shut (he'd demanded you kept them closed as he pulled the shirt over his torso), you'd asked, "What happened?"

You opened your eyes and Snufkin looked close to tears. He turned away and asked with stiff politeness if you could leave him be. You did.

As expected, your parents were kind to your injured visitor; Mamma cooked him heavy portions after getting a peek at his sharp riblines, and Pappa forged him a cane so Snufkin could navigate through the house better. Pappa explained to you that a severe artery was busted in the shoulder and Snufkin is fortunate to still have any control over his arm.

The thing was...Pappa is _much_ more knowledgable about these types of wounds than you expected him to be. You'd gotten curious when he could identify the gun he was shot with just by the impact left on Snufkin's clavicle, and at what distance he was likely shot from. You'd given your father an odd glance as he explained this to Snufkin, who was sickly but attentive, and then Mamma called you into the kitchen to assist with dinner.

You'd asked her over chopping up peppers and zucchini how Pappa knew all of this. She was quiet for a moment, just a moment, before she said, "You'd be surprised to know that your father and I once had lives outside of you, dear."

"Well, I know _that_, but what calls for Pappa knowing all this stuff about guns?"

"It was more of an essential back then," Mamma explained, "Times weren't always so simple, Moomin. I know you think so poorly of this town, but...it really is kinder than what we would find anywhere else."

You should've asked her to elaborate on what she meant, but then the oven timer went off and somehow that became more important.

It's a week later and there was a knock at your door; you thought it was your parents, so you were surprised to see Snufkin looming outside your room. You patted next to your bedside as a friendly notion, but he declined and limped over to the other side of your bedroom, where your desk cluttered with knickknacks resided.

He mumbled something as he toyed with one of your action figures, and you asked, "Pardon?"

He wore an unreadable expression; your lamplight bore sharp shadows into his sunken features, making him look extremely frail. "I wanted to thank you properly for saving my life," Snufkin repeated lowly.

You gave a touched smile. "It's nothing," your replied, truthfully. "I'm sorry we couldn't take you to the hospital, but it was too far away. I'm sure they would've treated you much kinder there."

Snufkin's face fell. He shook his head. "No. No, that's...that's fine. I, um, I'd prefer that you didn't, actually."

"Oh?" You leaned forward, remarking once more on your guest's stooped posture. "Is there a reason?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't manage anything. He walked over with an uneven gait to where you were sitting. His gaze was trodden, barricading beneath it a pain that's so alien to you that you could never hope to reach it.

He leaned closer as though to tell you a secret. Instead he murmured, "Please close the door."

In a sort of trance, you obeyed and walked over to the door; you found yourself peeking outside the hallway like you were wary of listeners.

When you returned to your seat, Snufkin had adjusted himself so he was propped up by your nightstand. Both hands wrung uncertainly around Pappa's cane. His gaze refused to meet your own and it was another minute before he could speak:

"I'm in a lot of trouble."

-

The cold water wades up to your chest when you stand; bright flashes of cold shiver up your spine and have you gulping breaths through clattering teeth. The freezing temperature hardly shocks you as severely as the explosion did.

Although you can't view the remains of the trailer too well from this angle below, you can see the orange glow vivid against the violet sky, flames crackling as it licks up whatever is left inside. Concern strikes you like lightning as, for the smallest of seconds, you consider the worst.

Luckily, Snufkin resurfaces before you truly panic — he's gasping for air and clinging to your arm, with his legs kicking sporadically at your shin. He's flailing like a drowning cat in water, and he's also remarkably shorter than you — a whole foot so; you have to reach down and lift him bridal-style for his thrashing to cease.

"Moomin!" You raise your head to see Too-Ticky calmly watching from the shoreline, just beneath the canyon; clearly she wasn't moronic enough to fling herself off the gully the moment the flames became too high. "You frozen, love?"

You're about to call out a 'no' before a sneeze racks your body and you have to turn away so your snot doesn't get on Snufkin's clothes.

Even from this distance you can hear her amused tutt. Then she extends her hand. "C'mover here, then! Don't need ya' freezin' up like icicles now."

Adjusting Snufkin in your hold, you wade towards her; your gaze is locked on the trailer, still doused in flames. You wish Too-Ticky had given a _bit_ more forewarning before throwing the match. Then again, her scheme of throwing the men off your path in such an explosive manner (no pun intended) should've had you expecting something so drastic, given her extremities.

Snufkin trembles from the same chill you feel; as you avoid tripping over obstacles murking beneath the waters, you ask him, "Why did you jump in with me if you can't swim?"

He makes a sound that you _think_ was meant to be a laugh, but it's too shaky and thin. "W-wanted to make s-s-sure you were okay."

You attempt a chuckle of sorts, too. "I'm good, th-thanks. Yourself?"

"Well, I jus-st blew up an RV, so. I'm doing f-fine."

Once you're close enough, Too-Ticky grabs your hand and pulls you forward with strength you didn't know she carried. You set Snufkin down on the rocky shore before wallowing in the clothes glued to your frame, leaving you feeling more miserable.

As you both share bouts of coughing, Too-Ticky stares overhead at the skeletal outline of her home searing into ash. Her expression, glowing amidst the embers, appears tame and unbothered; instead she reaches down to pull a box of cigarettes from her pocket. She lights one, extending another to Snufkin's direction; he looks at her incredulously from where he's huddled into himself for warmth. He shakes his head and mutters, "No thanks," so she shrugs and shoves the pack away.

You listen to the flames a while longer before you break the quiet with a long-overdue, "What the _fuck._"

Too-Ticky glances over. "Everythin' alright?"

"Alr— no. _No,_" your voice grows louder, aching chills long forgotten. "_No!_ No, we just— we blew up a _vehicle_, madam." You grit this through your teeth, as though it's a bastardizing secret, and give her a furious eye. "So pardon _me_ for seeming so unnerved about this because _someone_ here has to be!"

Too-Ticky holds your stare evenly. She drawls out another whiff of smoke which mingles into the thickening air. She doesn't say anything and turns back to the fire.

Snufkin peels off his jacket with rattling effort before walking over to where you're standing, still in shivers. He follows your gaze to the canyon with a clouded expression, his mind clearly elsewhere. You pretend not to notice his fingers ghosting over your knuckles.

"I'm sorry about your trailer, Too-Ticky," he murmurs softly.

Too-Ticky finally breaks her neutrality to give him something of a sad smile. "S'for the best, don't you think?" she says in return. "It could give us a leg-up in our journey — I hardly consider it a loss. Besides," she gestures over her shoulder to her backpack. "Everythin' I need is right here."

You frown at her. "You sound way too calm about this."

She rewards your comment with a wink but zero rebuttals. "Let's get moving, yeah? No use freezin' out here when there's a motel not three miles west." Before departing, she adds on with a hint of amusement, "Good use of yer noggin back there, gettin' all that gasoline off yerself by jumpin' into that body-o'-water."

Oh, yes. You'd nearly forgotten how you actively participated in an act of _arson._ On the property of this woman you still haven't gotten around to trusting yet.

Too-Ticky leads the way back by taking a small pathway she must've climbed down, instead of jumping over like you imbeciles. With nimble steps, she peeks behind her every so often to encourage you both to watch your footing.

You follow her lead; no mater how upset you might be with the actions you've just perpetrated, you _have_ to stay clear-headed right now — and she has a point. Maybe they'd see the trailer as a sign that you all burned alive or something; maybe they'll believe another gang got to you first.

Or maybe it won't work at all and you destroying the one haven you had was all for naught.

You can't think about this now.

You call out to Snufkin over your shoulder, breaking him out of his stupor; his eyes are still glazed but, head lowered, he follows you up the slope, still hugging himself with his jacket tied around his waist.

-

Snufkin began by promising to the stars above he'd never met his father. He'd presumed him dead at best — never left a letter or voicemail, never even touched a bill for child support. His mother only mentioned him in brief passing; if he were younger and unaware of how nature works he'd have assumed he never had a father to begin with.

He was still adapting to life outside the foster system, and during that time his biological mother made contact with him. She'd send checks in the mail for food and whatnot, believing him to be studying some throwaway subject at his community college — he hadn't ever the heart to write her back and explain he'd been expelled. Besides, had it not been for common courtesy he'd never touch base with his mother at all — _she_ certainly hadn't made the effort to until now.

He said that life was fine like that, though; just living off his mother's checks for essentials, whilst barely scraping by due to not finding (or wanting) a proper job. No degree or available birth certificate meant he was a ghost to every system, and for a time that was manageable. He wouldn't have been missed if he wandered off the grid; merely an overlooked speck in a database. Which is how he liked it.

Then some men knocked on his door.

He'd opened it, foolishly, to some men in suits looming outside. He'd first believed they were social workers, which was hardly uncommon; but their mugs were unkind and seething with malice as they forced themselves through the doorway of his apartment.

They gave the place a gander before wordlessly shoving papers into his hands. He gave the documents a once-over, presuming them to be some form of custodial legalities he was no stranger to.

Then the men pointed out his father's signature at the bottom — and his own, in faded ink, right below it. He didn't know how they got his signature, because he was certain he would've remembered signing something right beneath his father's name. It looked to be a sort of contract, but he was hardly savvy enough to understand the specifics.

That was when the space around him became too tight; he requested a moment alone to collect his thoughts but was offered none. The men were getting angrier when he started asking questions, such as how they knew his father and how they got his name documented. 

They wanted money.

They wanted a _lot_ of money.

He didn't know what to do — they wouldn't take his petty savings stuffed underneath the couch cushions, nor could his mother's checks suffice. No, this was in the hundred-thousands range, perhaps millions if he could sit down and look over the paperwork accordingly — something a college dropout could only fantasize having.

They got impatient, showing off some polished pistols hanging from their back pockets. They said he had _five minutes_ to scrape up daddy's payments or they would have him swimming up the nearest creek.

Five minutes was just enough time to leap out of the kitchen window and dive two-stories into the dumpster below. He bit back curses at the sprained ankle he gained from the half-baked plan, but the gunshots and shouts overhead outnumbered any pain he received from the fall. He gathered the paperwork that floated to his side and shrugged on his backpack with few supplies stuffed into it, and he fled.

He went to the bank first (a dreadful building, he commented) and tried to see what they could do — unsurprisingly, nothing: that was _his_ name on the papers, somehow. An offer to contact authorities was declined: whatever dirt they had on his family name definitely had the odds outside his favor, and he was already in hot water with the police from some minor charges a couple months back. Besides, there was a little too much confidence in how those men presented their guns and murderous intentions; they might be above the police entirely.

So he ran, with zero destination in mind, with a pocketful of cash from his mother's emergency account. He'd figured that the men would stop searching once he was off their charts, which was...not the case. It seemed like there were always men leering over his shoulder, aching to rip him to shreds should he make the wrong move. He had no clue why they were so angry, but he knew his father must have _really_ riled them up with whatever he'd done.

And then he was cornered in an alleyway and barely escaped with his right arm still attached, and somehow he found his way to you.

Snufkin repeated with frantic urgency that he had _no idea_ where they would've retrieved his signature —or his father's, for that matter. He didn't know if his father's penmanship was decades old or what, but he knew that it was his father's name solely because of the many documents his mother had sent off for legal purposes. Surely if this were a big joke at his sanity's expense this would've let up several towns back.

He clasped a hand over yours and squeezed it hard enough that your bones were sore beneath his touch. His eyes were glimmering with such ferocity that it left you momentarily tongue-tied.

"Please, _please_ believe me," he begged in a shaking voice. "I can't get anyone else to listen to me—they think I'm making it all up for money and I...I can't keep running forever, they'll catch up, I _know_ they will, there's so many of them and I..." Somehow he's able to choke your hand even harder. "I _swear_ by any god that's out there, Moomin, I'm not lying, _please_—"

"I-I believe you!" You felt as though his convicting despair left you no other choice.

"I never wanted money," Snufkin continued hastily. "I just want them to—to _stop_ looking for me. I don't know what my father's done but I..."

"I believe you, Snufkin," you promised. "I-I do. I don't know what I can do, but maybe Pappa can—"

"No!" He shot up and stared at you unhinged. "Don't tell them, please! They're so kind — you're all so very kind — but I've already done enough harm by telling you all this."

"But you need help," you insisted. You gently unraveled your fingers from his, guiding them back to the tip of Pappa's cane so he could regain balance. "Tell me what I can do, Snufkin. I promise I'll do whatever you need me to."

He swallowed, turning away. One finger drummed on the cane as his mind was clearly racing.

"I need to patch up my bike," he decided. "I don't know much about motorcycles — I hardly know how to _refuel_ them. But the tires are too flat, I know that, and I might need an engine check just to make sure it doesn't explode on me."

You nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. "I know just the person that can help. We can head over to her shop tomorrow and we'll get it all straightened out, I promise."

Snufkin blinked at you, and then offered a nod, becoming resolute on something private.

"You've done enough for me," he said. "Just fix up my bike, and I'll be out of your hair forever by tomorrow afternoon."

-

Another busted tire.

You and Snufkin had collectively groaned at the sight of it. At this point you're shocked the bike hasn't combusted entirely; with _your_ luck it'll do so and at the worst possible moment.

Too-Ticky pulled her truck over to help you out, handing off whatever tools she stored in the back and expecting you to hold all the answers to fixing this stupid thing — apparently she's wise in every factor but motorcycles, because naturally.

You allowed Snufkin to tap out of assisting you this time around — the trailer fiasco has left him quite tetchy and distant, so you'd assumed he just needed some space. He leaves you the canteen this time and settles on the luggage with a bag of peanuts to munch on.

You're out in the middle of nowhere once more, shaking off your flannel so you can work in a tank top since the temperature is so unbearable. You crawl back under the cycle with Snorkmaiden's locket clasped between your teeth, just so it doesn't rub against your neck constantly. As you work in the grueling heat, occasionally spilling water over your head to keep from fainting, you hear Snufkin say, "Too-Ticky, may I ask you something?"

His voice is very quiet — he must think you're out of earshot. You let him believe this even though it's rude to eavesdrop.

Too-Ticky walks over to where Snufkin is seated with her hands in her pockets, casting a smile. "You sure can, but I may not have an answer you'd like."

"When we...burned your house," Snufkin begins, discarding his empty food packet, "you seemed so accepting of it. I just...I wondered why. I mean," he backpedals like he's trampled onto something sensitive, "I can understand, I'm not particularly a homebody myself, but...you left it behind so _easily_."

Too-Ticky sits on the dirt besides Snufkin's pack, even though he shimmies over a bit to allow her room atop the luggage should she wish. She brings a hand to her chin, thinking.

(You realize you're just toying with the engine now to drawl on time.)

"Suppose I'm used to jus' leavin' big things behind," she shrugs. "I hadn't been livin' there for very long so I wasn't too attached. I guess I just haven't found myself a home that isn't worth losin' yet."

Snufkin leans forward to tuck his chin onto his hands, listing down to his companion. "Is that so?"

"Well, if yer thinkin' that I set _all_ my houses on fire before I take off, that's a no," she says with a grin. "Consider you n' yer friend an exception to the Too-Ticky way."

Snufkin hums; he still appears at a closeted war with something, looking unsatisfied. When he glances over to see how you're doing, you just play with some of the tools by your side to look busy.

"Why are you helping us?" he asks her.

You have to pause your work of fuck-all, your mouth drying. His question topples into the atmosphere, spilling over your clandestine fears and casting them into the open air.

Too-Ticky doesn't answer immediately —which isn't unusual, but the air is so thick with tension that her hesitance is impossible to ignore. You know that she carries many secrets and isn't as easy to crack as Snufkin may be — although he's definitely his own case. Maybe you won't receive an answer at all, which would further suffocate your thoughts.

But she does speak eventually, and her tone is somber: "Yer in a bad place right now, Snufkin. I know that. I've been through that myself. I wanted someone to get me out of that place like I'm helpin' you now—"

"But that _can't_ be it," Snufkin insists. "You know so much about these—these _people_. I don't know how or why, and...to appease both myself and my friend, I'd very much like to know."

You feel a hollow thump at being added into this, but you suppose he _is_ right. It seems like you weren't the only one with worries.

"I don't care if you were one of them," he adds with a softer tone. "I can't afford to care about what you've done. I just need to know."

Too-Ticky gives him a long, long stare, and you watch her demeanor shift from one of acuity to something more melancholic and tiresome. It's an odd expression to see her wear — you haven't seen Too-Ticky look so defeated by anything.

"I wasn't involved with them," she finally says. "But I _do_ know who's after ya' and I know what they're capable of."

Snufkin perks up. "Did they do something to you?" When the words hang for a moment, he retracts with caution, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"My sister," Too-Ticky responds. Her voice drops with every arid syllable, as though recounting awful tales.

"Did they...kill her?"

"I think she wishes they did."

You shift terribly from where you're squatted near the bike. You don't wish for any attention to be drawn your way, so you simmer in your sweating boots, feeling Too-Ticky's pain ebb into your own and pool in your gut like a slimy, rotten thing.

"...I'm sorry." Snufkin's tone sounds offhanded, unrehearsed in empathy, but his gaze is heavy and you know he truly _is_ sorry.

Then Too-Ticky shakes her head. "You mentioned yer mother," she says abruptly.

Snufkin looks surprised. "Yes?"

"Do you think she could help?" she presses. "Do you know where she lives?"

He shakes his head. "No— I wish I knew. But I don't know if she could help, and I'd certainly hate to get her involved in somthing like this."

"Aye, well, she must've known _somethin'_ about yer father's work," she sniffs. "It's rare to have a bedmate and not know one thing about the bugger."

"Well, maybe that's just what happened," Snufkin shrugs curtly. "Besides, I can barely recall her address — she always wrote it on her checks but I never paid attention to it."

"Do you remember the postal code?"

"Erm, somewhat?"

Too-Ticky immediately gets to her feet, brushing stray dirt from the bottoms of her jeans. "Well, there's a lead! All we need is a phonebook then, I'm sure that once you see the name it'll jog yer memory!"

She sweeps her hand down to assist Snufkin upright before turning back to you so abruptly that you nearly fall on your butt with a yelp. "Almost done toying around o'er there, Moomin?"

"A-ah," Feeling as though you've just been caught red-handed, you spit out the locket from your teeth and start retrieving the tools you'd dropped whilst snooping in on their conversation. "Just about!"

Her smile is knowing but not ill-intentional. Instead her attention shifts to a snapping twig in the sandy marsh surrounding you, narrowing her eyes as she gives the landscape a once-over.

Snufkin walks over and kneels down with a playful grin. "Have I left you alone for so long that you've forgotten where the tire is located, Moomin?"

In a fluster, you realize you're gripping the headlights and not the tire you're supposed to be fixing. You snatch away your hands to give an embarrassed cough. "Um..."

He just chuckles. "Silly dear. Hand me something so I can help?"

You do so, falling into a companionable quiet as you get the bike up and running again. All the dread you may have carried has been annexed by this tremendous desire for resolve. A course has been set, which leaves you feeling more hopeful than perhaps you should be.

(And if Snufkin stares too long at your drenched undershirt, then gives a bashful cough when spotted, you relent from any teasing for his sake.)

-

You tapped anxiously along the hem of your belt as you waited for Snorkmaiden's verdict on Snufkin's motorcycle. Snufkin had rolled out the bike from some storage garage you had to drive out to, and even with your illiteracy on how motorcycles operate, you could tell the thing was on its last legs.

The disbelief that crossed Snorkmaiden's face when you rolled it into the shop told you as much as you needed to know. She gave a heated sigh before pinning up her hair and getting to work, tucking her locket beneath her undershirt so Snork wouldn't nag her about breaking policy.

You watched her bend around the machinery and assess its status; her little grunts and furrowed brows spilled enough about her internal calculations that you were really getting worried. Forget the cost of rebuilding the bike from the ground-up — you promised Snufkin you would help him out, but with Snorkmaiden taking so long inspecting all the nooks and crannies, you began to feel disheartened.

Finally your friend stood and gave you a ferocious glare with crossed arms.

"Is this some kind of joke, Moomin?"

There it is. "I thought you'd say something like that," you mumbled.

She raised one brow. "I never expected you to be into motorcycles," she commented, "Is this _for_ someone, or...?"

"Eh...somewhat, yes." Your hand scratched the back of your neck awkwardly as you gestured over to Snufkin — who, speak of the devil, was getting chewed out by Snork at that moment. Your friend's brother snatched something out of Snufkin's hand and you could hear the word 'pickpocketing', which was not at all reassuring.

When Snork stomped off, Snufkin just turned and started kicking at the vending machines behind him.

Snorkmaiden's distaste seared into the back of your neck so fiercely you felt goosebumps budding, even in the summer heat.

You whipped around. "It's not what you think—"

She turned back to the motorcycle, eyeing the dented engine with one finger on her lips before she reached for her toolbox on the desk nearby.

"It isn't!" you protested indignantly. "He came to me for help and I'm just being nice! That's all!"

Snorkmaiden crouched down and pried apart the metal with her hands to peek into the engine's mangled guts. She grimaced at the contents inside. "Jesus, Moomin, you could've gone after somebody with _taste!_ Or at least knows how to clean up after themselves..."

"Gone after...?"

"Oh my god, we are not playing this game. Would you like to know what's going to happen now?" She pointed over at Snufkin —zero luck on kicking the vending machine it seemed because now he was attempting to push it over entirely. "That walking toothpick over there is going to win over _all_ your sympathies with some tragic sobstory, and then you're going to sleep with him and find yourself in some big mess and the next thing I know, you'll be in my fridge eating all my ice cream crying over the guy, well guess _what!_" She shifted her index finger over to you like a loaded pistol, with a glare to match. "My strawberry ice cream is for Alicia _only,_ so you can _forget_ it!!"

Her words held such lucid accusation that you were left dumbfounded as she returned to her labor. You finally shook your head.

"May," you tried, "he's just...he's really hurting right now. It's not a matter of...attraction, or anything like that. I swear it isn't. It's just the right thing to do."

Snorkmaiden drooped onto her knees; she didn't look as frustrated as before, but her brows were still knitted together as she gave her impending words some forethought.

"You're a nice person, Moomin," she began, "but you're too _soft_ sometimes. It's going to get you in a lot of trouble one day. I just don't want you to get hurt." Her mouth crimped a little in upset. "I don't know this boy and I don't want to, but if I can judge people on the conditions they keep their vehicles in, well...he's a _whirlwind_ of trouble."

Despite the circumstance, you grinned. "You're sweet to be looking out for me."

"Oh, hush." Snorkmaiden snapped out her sentiments and went back to doing...whatever one does when patching up bikes. She splayed out some tools on the floor and began pawing out the appropriate ones to twist around in her hands. "If you're not going to listen to my words of wisdom, how about you go get your friend so he and I can talk shop?"

You called Snufkin over — he was holding several packets of candies and one bottled iced tea; you didn't have to think hard about where he'd gotten them — and as Snorkmaiden started pointed out the problems of his bike, you discarded her warnings as if they held no possible gravity to them.

As you walked to the waiting room, you heard Snorkmaiden snap, "You don't have _any_ license to ride??" and determined that a hearty tip for your friend's work was in order once she was finished.

-

You receive an incredulous look when you request water as your beverage, whilst your companions insist on hard liquor. But the water does come (with a straw, upon request) and you sip your drink as Snufkin and Too-Ticky both throw back their heads and gulp their respective poisons.

"Are you even old enough to drink?" you ask Snufkin.

He slams the half-empty glass back down on the bar, looking ruffled as the strong drink pours into his system. "That's the least of my worries, don't you think?"

It sounds more leering than you guess he'd intended; his crooked simper quickly dissolves into somberness as he twists the bottle around, mesmerized by the liquid swirling around. "...Yes, I am."

Too-Ticky belches before elbowing him in the shoulder, grinning. "Should'a asked that first before lettin' a babyface like yerself order, my fault." She looks at your water, then at you. "Not a drinker, Moomin?"

"I thought we were here to discuss finding Snukin's mom, not get drunk off our asses."

"Ah, right." Too-Ticky digs through her jacket before slapping down a folded piece of paper — it's scrawled with phone lines and zipcodes. An attempt at jogging Snufkin's memory, and right when he's drinking too.

Fantastic.

She taps the numbers that haven't been crossed out. "Ringin' any bells, love?"

Snufkin shrugs, disinterested, and takes a short sip. "Not anymore than usual."

"This is getting ridiculous," you throw up your arms. "Just because we know she's somewhere in east Finland doesn't mean we're going to come across her in a phonebook! I say we just stick to _our_ plan, which was to find Joxter — at least that way we have a _face_ to who we're looking for!"

A couple over on your left peers up from their meal to give you an inquisitive look, but quickly return to your food and you think nothing of it, even if your voice _is_ too loud for comfort.

"You have a good point," Too-Ticky slowly agrees, "but finding him would lead us straight into the eye of the storm, should we try to. I just want to make sure all our other leads are exhausted before then, fair?"

"I would like to meet him," Snufkin murmurs, surprising you.

"Really?"

"Granted, I _do_ have some choice words," he explains. "But seeing your parents in person sounds...nice. Normal, you know?"

"Of course, that's understandable." You reckon that even though you're upset with your parents now, it'd be a different ballpark altogether if you couldn't put a face to your anger; blind hatred sounds so depressing.

"What about yer foster parents?" Too-Ticky asks Snufkin. "Should any o' them be any help?"

Snufkin nearly chokes as he takes another swig. With dark amusement, he mutters, "Should any even care to recognize me by this point."

"I'm sure they would!" you assure, blindly and naively enough that it gets you another scoff.

"No, my name is different than in whatever documents they have on me, and...well, some of my families might not be happy about that." He bends his lower lip into his teeth, eyes glazed. "No matter how much I may loathe them, they don't deserve to be involved in my business."

Too-Ticky nods sagely, having clicked something together that you haven't. "Aye, figured as much about yerself."

Snufkin reacts as though she's struck him, looking utterly crestfallen. "H-how did you know?"

Her gaze is nothing but warm. "It's a talent to recognize my own type, I suppose."

"What do—" There's a form of realization, here, between the two; Snufkin straightens as whatever idea he's hypothesized appears spot-on, based on Too-Ticky's gentle nod and gentler smile. It's a small thing, but you do notice Snufkin's eyes glow and his shoulders are tighter when he reaches for another sip of his drink. You make to ask what she meant when there's a tap on your shoulder.

"Pardon me." The folks who'd been glancing at you from across the bar now tower over you with gleaned, tight grins that don't match their eyes. They're tall — not taller than yourself but still enough to be intimidating — and quite burly.

"Did I hear you say you were looking for the Joxter?" one of them asks, pointedly towards Snufkin.

You snap your head over to look at Snufkin: he's pale and has cracked his lips to perhaps concoct an explanation, but he's so panicked that nothing escapes his throat. Too-Ticky slowly rises out of her chair.

"You must be his son, then," the other grins. "I don't think we've met."

You stand as well. One of them clasps your shoulder and makes to shove you back down.

It's blurry, what happens next; you'd made to remove their palm and somehow a crack of knuckles smashes your cheek and drives your vision into a furious red. In the distance, a bottle is smashed to the floor and its cacophony of glass resounds through the bar.

"_Fight!!_" you hear someone scream.

So many bodies press into your own, so many fists barrel into your ribs intending to knock you down. You push back just as hard, with the vigor of someone who's been locked underwater for so long they claw themself to the surface in a ruddy attempt for escape. Your strength eludes your own expectations — you're swinging left and right and there's so much blood and sickening cracks, but your mind is a ravenous animal and your only thought is to _get out._

Somehow you're cognitive enough to make your way to the neon exit sign. You trip over so many bodies and shove away several more, but only one hand is constantly fastened to your flannel like it's a lifeline; rationality possesses your hindbrain just long enough so you don't blindly punch in that direction, in case you accidentally smack him.

Pain comes sluggishly, rushing to the forefront with every aim that blasts into your nose or eyes or anywhere vulnerable. Shrouded in these terrors outside your control, you can do nothing but hurt and hurt and in return you're given more and more pain.

Two sets of hands tug your collar out the door. You hadn't realized you've arrived at the exit.

The nightly air is a striking contrast to the riot that Too-Ticky slams the door on; she blocks the exit by hauling any nearby objects heavy enough to throw off pursuers, or at least discourage them from attempting to reach you. Your overtaxed sensations finally surrender to your throbbing aches demanding attention, and you think that someone must've kicked you really hard in your stomach because you double-over in immediate pain, moaning.

A smaller form huddles over you; arms cross over your head and press you close to his chest, and you breathe deeply, with gulps so harrowed you have to turn your head for air. His fingers dig into your short hair, locking you in. Agony continues to slide into you slow like molasses, dull yet constant.

"Please don't do that again," Snufkin whispers.

You manage to shake your head in response. He smells like sweat and whatever liquor he was chugging and it's hardly pleasant — but an undertone of pine and firewood resurfaces, the more you burrow into his clothes.

"Are you okay?" You arms find his waist and pull him closer.

He twists his nails further into your scalp. "I'm _fine._"

Too-Ticky comes over to examine your wounds and pulls you both apart for inspection. Obviously you'd taken the bigger blows, having sheltered your friends close behind your back. But in the streetlight above, you can see a nasty scrape bolstering pink on Too-Ticky's cheek, with Snufkin sporting his own series of cuts across his face.

"Nothin' that can't be patched up," she decides. "It's best we get back on the road since we're obviously not welcome here." You hobble up to your feet again, with Too-Ticky looking at you with something of awe. "Yer somethin' of a tank, aren't ya' Moomin? You took all those hits so well and didn't falter once!"

"Because of my fat," you shrug. Snufkin glares at you like he’s personally insulted.

"Big-boned," Too-Ticky winks. "Stocky. Beefy. Strong. Not fat."

She leads the way back to her truck without another word, where you'll head back to the motel and scrape up your belongings and leave this town for good. Snufkin melts into your side with a slumped posture, similar to the one he carried back at the trailer's downfall.

He takes your hand. It's not the first time he's done that, but...it feels different this time around. A sense of warmth jumpstarts your muscles; even if your partner is still dull from the aftershock, you cast a smile down to the top of his auburn hair.

He kisses you in the back of the truck — if trouble had a taste you think it'd be just as sweet and bitter as the alcohol coating his lips.

-

The bike was in such poor shape that Snufkin couldn't depart that afternoon like he'd hoped; it clearly grated on his temper for the rest of the day. He spent the evening just kicking at the engine and tires like that’d start it back up. When you'd came to give him lemonade from Mamma, he'd grumbled under his breath but took short sips of his drink.

You felt for him — even though you trusted Snorkmaiden's expertise, you were also a bit aggravated to learn of her own limitations; it'd be a couple more visits to the shop before the motorcycle was back in working order. She'd inflated the tires and lectured Snufkin on the basic do's and don't's of the task; later she mumbled into your ear that he probably hasn't so much as _looked_ at a bike in his life and she had no clue how he'd made it this far.

Obviously the motorcycle wasn't his; and with what he'd told you about living day by day on pure grit, you hoped that the true owner is still able to get around with his main form of transportation.

Snufkin promised every day that he'd get out of your town the moment he could — you didn't like how he inferred his presence to be like a ticking time bomb. You promised him just as often that he wasn't a burden and your parents (yourself, especially) would shelter him as long as needed. No skin off your bones.

Your assurances fell on deaf ears as more and more folk started strolling into town.

Mind, visitors are rare —your home is nestled deep in the mountain's heart; it's something of an old mining town that was recently patched up as the jails became overpopulated and the more docile inmates were cast onto the streets. Your parents were one of the first settlers there; firsthand they could tell how rarely your town received recognition — it's lonely and detached, with tourists a foreign concept.

But as you walked into a drug store, you were surprised you hardly knew a soul browsing the aisles. They had curved shoulders and heavy clothing that obviously housed _something_ underneath, but you weren't in a mood to find out what. Your shopping trip abandoned, you'd snaked out of the store and practically sprinted back home.

They would stalk the night like nocturnal beings; your mother began a curfew for after hours, just because she 'didn't know them yet'. She assured that they were likely harmless and there was plenty of time to be courteous during daylight, but her lips were strained along the edges when she spoke.

Something was wrong.

When you'd wondered _why_ there were so many new people, your inquiries were treated as though you were just a worrywart — even though your parent's tight expressions mirrored your own. Even your friend Sniff — who rarely left the sanctuary of his room except to lounge in yours — had taken notice of the newcomers. Snorkmaiden called you up to complain about some catcalling her at work.

Snufkin hardly exited the guestroom anymore, and when you did visit he was enamored by maps detailing the countryside —removable tape plastered them onto a walls like it was a crime investigation. His gaze was hardset on a scheme of sorts, but his fidgety hands would expose his real anxieties.

You tried telling him that none of it was his fault — since he hadn't been outside in ages, it'd be impossible for them to hone in on his precise location, if that was even why they were there.

He just shook his head, tightening his grip on the cane he hardly required anymore. He told you grimly how he'd been attacked by men just like this on his route to your town, and from the unflinching determination they had to strike him down, all of this _couldn't_ be a coincidence.

Why _else_ would they be here? he demanded.

You'd said that perhaps they were looking for someone else.

There's no one else that they'd want, he argued. It's all him. And now his bike was broken and he couldn't leave, and he's trapped your family in his troubles like flies in honey and it's all his fault.

Maybe they wanted more than just him, you reasoned. Why would they waste so much manpower on finding you, Snufkin — yes they wanted your father's money, but that can't be all of it. _Surely_ there's a missing piece here.

You got kicked out of the room after you'd proposed this. Snufkin snapped, "Well, if you have any ideas on how we can accommodate their needs, feel free to let me know." He slammed the door so hard it shook the house.

Some nights after, just as you're becoming adjusting to these new residents, a rock is flung into your living room window. Your mother shrieked from the kitchen; your father nearly choked on his pipe in the armchair.

You'd been the one to gingerly pick it up amongst the shattered glass, at first presuming it to have been a childish prank. You examined the rock — there's a note scrawled across the surface in angry marker:

_STOOLIE FUCKER_

...Perhaps there was some truth to Snufkin's paranoia after all. You dropped the rock like it was a burning coal and put a hand to your agape mouth. Fear trickled into your guts and entangled them, clogging your throat. You felt faint.

Pappa was next to pick up the cursed thing — his face grew bleach-white and the upper lip of his moustache tremendously dropped. He said it was just newcomers trying to get a rise out of you, like some intimidation factor. But his grip became tighter around his newspaper after that incident, his veins protruding angrily down his arms and reddened fingertips. Mamma would dust the hours for hours on end with a ruffled expression. Snufkin wouldn't allow entry into his room anymore.

Something was very, very wrong.

-

You've stepped out of the campsite for a brief moment of privacy, just as Snufkin and Too-Ticky were pitching the tent next to the truck. Money is tight until you can...find more, putting it mildly, so for now you're roughing it on rest stops near the highway — Snufkin was more than pleased about this (he'd mentioned doing boy scouts as a kid). You told your partners you planned to call a friend, since you saw a phone booth beside the visitor information center, and Too-Ticky leant you some coins for the call. She turned her head as you bent down to give Snufkin a kiss before departing.

You punch in the numbers and clasp onto every ring.

The moment she picks up, you're sobbing.

"_Moomin?_" Her pitch rises frantically; you hear her shuffling on the other end as though to rush out of a room. "Oh my god, I knew this would happen — What did he do?? Are you hurt???"

Your bottled hysteria has evolved into a whirlwind of emotions all exploding into the open. Grief spills from your searing lungs, demanding release; although you can feel Snorkmaiden's alarm on the other end of the line, you find yourself unable to stop now that you're burrowed away from onlookers. Where this meltdown wouldn't taint your optimistic character amongst your partners.

After you've exorcised a good amount of this agony, your sobs evolve into shaking sniffs; somehow you've burrowed into a corner of the booth like a frightened child, your knees digging into your torso.

Snorkmaiden is clearly pulsing with worry, but her voice is steady. "Is everything okay, Moomin?"

You almost laugh at the absurdity — you'd think her question to be sarcastic if her tone wasn't so gentle. Rubbing your eyes, you sniff, "No, n-not...not really."

"I'd ask where you are so I could also pick you up, but..." she stalls. "They're not happy with you. It's best you stay out of town until they leave."

Despite your numbing sentiments, you feel a sharp pang of worry. "Is everyone okay?"

"We're fine," she says, slowly — unconvincingly.

"Mamma and Pappa—"

"They're okay, just laying low right now. I delivered some groceries to them a couple days ago."

A foreign thud of guilt aches in your sore chest, drifting from this high of post-meltdown release into a grounded concern for your friend — and your family. You know you were right to leave, they were closing in and it wouldn't have been long before bullets sprayed through your windows like hail, but—

You sniffle again, wetly, and pinch at the tip of your impending headache.

"Moomin," Snorkmaiden sighs, "remember what I said about you being soft?"

You hesitate a bit. "Yes?"

"I...I didn't mean to say it like it was a bad thing," she says. "It's good that you're soft, Moomin. This world needs more people like that — and as much as I _hate_ to say it," (she truly does, she has to give a gusty sigh of surrender before continuing), "it's good that you're...with Snufkin right now. I think the situation calls for someone like you."

"Because of my...natural charm?" you attempt to joke, but the punchline falls flat. Snorkmaiden still provides an airy chuckle though.

"Well no, but you're really positive, Moomin. And you're...vulnerable and sensitive, and you've got a lot of heart. Things are really bad right now, and I know your attitude about things would be really appreciated back home."

"It kind of sounds like I'm a massive burden."

"No! No, gracious, not at all! I meant all that in a good way, I promise."

Your fingers curl into the telephone cord — your crying has left only a couple more minutes left on the timer and you don't have any more coins to extend the call. "Please take care of them for me, May. My parents, I mean. I shouldn't have stomped off like that."

"Personally? I think you had every right to be mad," she says. "But...I will. I'll keep them safe, Moomin."

A part of you loosens at her promise. She asks, "Do you want me to tell them you called?"

"I..." A disgust creeps in at the mere _thought_ of conversing with your parents right now — how's _that_ for being all soft and sweet, ha. And sure, they have the rights to know where you are, and they're probably worried sick of your whereabouts, but...

You shake your head, even if Snorkmaiden can't see it. "No. Not yet. Not now. I...I can't do it yet. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Snorkmaiden sounds patient, if not a bit sad. A different voice crackles into the receiver, shrouded from distance. She says after a second, "Snork is bugging me about our overdue phone bills so I'll have to keep this short, but I think it's fine that you're feeling weird about your parents. I think it's reasonable to not forgive what they did right now.

"I'll keep your call a secret if you really want, but I can't promise I'll be quiet about it forever. We all miss you though, _I'll_ tell you that much."

"I love you." You thumb at the locket on your chest — always there, even under Snufkin's envious eye, even when the breakup was an entire lifetime ago and the original meaning of its presence has deterred entirely.

"Love you too. And tell Snufkin that he gets no discounts from my shop just because he's sleeping with my best friend."

You sputter — gracious, _that's_ a mood changer. "_Snorkmaiden!_"

"I'm serious! And the fact that you shouted my name like that instead of rolling your eyes at me just proves my point — are you two using protection at least? I know it's probably out of your budget but—"

"You can't even _see_ me to know whether or not I rolled my eyes!"

"—but if you can afford to be romantic dumbasses on the lam you could at _least_ invest in making sure you don't get any diseases, it's like seeing you have sex with a pound dog—"

"Snorkmaiden _please!_"

This time she does laugh, even if you feel like she wasn't joking around. "I gotta go, Alicia's over for movie night."

"Tell her I said hello."

"I won't. She hates you."

"Yeah, I know."

"Bye, Moomin, Please be safe."

The phone clicks and demands you pay more to continue the call. It's late; the crickets wail amongst the shrubs and mosquitoes crawl along your arms. The humidity sticks to your exposed flesh. You need to get back to the campsite.

A modicum of comfort comes from hearing from Snorkmaiden and her updates, but then you think harder about your parents and the state of your ruddy town. You wonder what they're doing now — if Mamma is still making chamomile tea at this hour, or if Pappa has picked up his pipe now that you're absent and is rereading the Sunday paper. Or perhaps their routine has been so incredibly shaken that you have no conceivable clue what they're doing at all.

These thoughts stiffen into a deadly stillness, a gateway into the wordless melancholy you carry when you return to the camp and avoid the questions asked when you return. You zip up the tent and even with Snufkin pressing himself to your side, kneading at your knuckles and squeezing your arm, you're a bastion of quiet for a long while.

-

You were in the attic, coughing up dust and flicking away the spiderwebs that tickled your nose. Mamma had requested you fetched something for her — aforementioned something being kept in a labelled box near the box. She assured you that it couldn't be missed.

The air was exceptionally stuffy and it was hard to breathe — your summers aren't exceptionally record-breaking in heat but the tight mountain air negotiates this so on bad days you needed aspirin for your pounding head. You were close to calling it quits because it was one of those days, plus you'd forgotten what Mamma needed.

(You were also grouchy because Snufkin didn't open the door last night to retrieve his dinner plate, and you thought your mother would be understanding if you decided to be defiant that day.)

You tripped over a cardboard box that weighed as much as a doorstop; you toe banged against the corner and you swore as your knee collided onto the wooden boards.

From downstairs, your mother chided you on your language.

Further petulant, you glared down at the unmarked box that disrupted your errand. You'd come up here only a couple of times, so you couldn't recall this specific box, or if it held something special or something remarkably bland. Intrigue would have it, you speculated that this could be the thing that Mamma needed.

You scooted closer and opened the flaps:

Lots of old, crusty newspapers layered the surface, nearly toppling over before it'd be impossible to close properly. You felt a twinge of disappointment — they were probably Pappa's collection from...goodness, these papers were _old._ The first paper was dated as 1974 — not exactly ancient or anything, but still a good twenty-something years before you were born. The headlines were bold and capitalized, announcing some big bust of something.

Nothing interesting here.

For some reason, the idea of your miniature investigation being for naught left you discontented. Perhaps these papers were just harbingers that sheltered something like a treasure at the bottom of it. With your curiosity fully peaked, you flung the paper stacks to the sides and shoveled your way to the bottom of the box.

More papers documenting something or other; there were also article snippets, although the information was hardly worth your interest. Yeesh. Mamma should really boil down on Pappa's excessive hoarding — you doubted any museum chronicling your father's spectacular adventures would want any boring papers from your attic.

You reached the bottom of the box, fairly dismayed when you found that papers was all the box contained. What a waste of space and time, hardly worth busting your toe over! With a scowl you began to place the documents back.

Some slipped out of your hands and drifted to the floor. _Damn it all._ You reached to clean up the mess when a particular headline caught your eye:

A greyscale photo that enveloped more than half of the front page, with its cover screaming: _LARGEST MAFIA BUST IN UNDERCOVER RAID! 100 GANGSTERS SEIZED IN ROUNDUP._

Not exactly the most sanguine of reading material, but your heart skipped when you took a closer inspection at the blurred man in handcuffs, being forced out of a pub by armed policemen.

That looks...

Surely not.

Many older men wore mustaches back then; your father was hardly a trendsetter. Many men wore top hats too, and had that big, round nose you'd inherited from him, and light hair, and sure Pappa _does_ get crinkles in his brow like that when he was downcast or angry, but...

No, absolutely not. Mere coincidence. You almost laughed at your inane fantasies — your father, a criminal. Entertaining, sure, but— imagine! What a distant thought.

Oh. Your grip had tightened it'd fractured the crisp paper. You were still staring at the picture. Hah.

You set it down. For no particular reason, you picked up another piece of paper to discard your stupid, foolish, _unrealistic_ ideas that were pummeling your pulse.

_TREASON CONFESSION PUTS INFAMOUS GANG ON ROADWAY TO ELECTRIC CHAIR_

Okay, that was a bad idea. Very bad timing. Not helping.

Another article then.

_ITALIAN CRIME BOSS VOWS, "WE'LL BE BACK"_

—You were being ridiculous. This was just because Pappa was interested in this major crime bust he'd heard about — or maybe Mamma, why single Pappa out here! Maybe this was her idea of light reading, who were you to judge!

_OVERPOPULATION IN JAIL LEAVES POLICE DESPERATE - PLEA DEALS INITIATED FOR LIGHTER SENTENCES_

_OSHUN OXTRA MEMBERS RELEASED FROM ALL CHARGES_

_OSHUN OXTRA ATTORNEY: 'THEY'RE NOT THE EXECUTORS, FIND SOMEONE WORTHY TO PUT BEHIND BARS'_

Whoever is reading this, they were very interested in whatever these Oshun people had done — underhand work, it seemed. Dirty work. Third wheels, negotiators. It wasn't so bad. They were puppets, not the ones pulling the strings—

You were _not_ justifying their actions. You were not grasping straws for some conceivable antidote to your throbbing chest. And if you skimmed the articles a bit, then you were only interested in the contents as a consumer.

You and your father's shared name was _common_. Your surname even more so. There was no reason to panic when you spotted it in the headers.

Okay, you're definitely done now, just gonna put all this back—

A photograph spills from between the pages; it lands next to your feet and you pick it up slowly, with shaking fingers.

This one was in color, dull and cracked along the edges with age, a bit stained too. The men in the picture didn't smile, their backs haggardly straightened like a gun was pressed to their tailbones. The stocky, smallest of the three had light blonde hair like you, his skin a sickly white, and wearing a sneer that creased his dimples like scars.

You don't recognize the other three men he's with; if he intended to introduce them at any point surely he would've mentioned them in his ramblings on the 'glory days', whatever those glory days entailed because their ambiguity never registered in your three-year-old brain. They were just bedtime stories, merely battles of good vs. evil with your father as the victor...no matter which side he was on.

Disbelief had broken any sense of calm you'd carried and then every noise from downstairs was grating; every breath the house took grated on your nerves. A maelstrom of contradiction, as things began to make sense the more you considered them, began to take over. As you reflected over your findings and realized why the newcomers were _really_ here, suddenly the attic became too small and the air too thin.

You pocketed the photograph in your front pocket.

You were going to be sick.

-

Too-Ticky hasn't stopped peering over her shoulder this entire lunch — she was the one who elected for outdoor seating (an easier getaway route, she'd reasoned) and you're getting a bit irritated with her plate being untouched in favor of staring down the alleyway this shitty café is surrounded by.

Snufkin is so infatuated with his food that he hasn't taken notice of Too-Ticky's behavior; although his table manners make you even more irritated with how your partners are acting. Didn't he learn in elementary school that the food is supposed to stay _on_ the plate??

(He winks at you as he slurps up his food, as if this display is in _any_ way arousing.)

Once you've finished your meal and Too-Ticky (somehow) covers the bill, you make to the vacant parking lot out back, feeling replenished for the first time in days. Savings are pretty slim now, and though you're still frustrated when they return to the motel with money seemingly pulled from thin air, you're also starving. You just hate that you have to sacrifice morality for survival.

You get on the bike, with Snufkin swinging his leg over the seat behind you. You expect to turn and see Too-Ticky igniting the truck so you can separate and take different routes to Snufkin's mother's...supposed residence, fuck if you know anymore. But you're offput when Too-Ticky just continues to inspect the area like she expects an ambush. It makes you antsy.

"Is something the matter?" you call to her.

She targets her gaze towards some prickly bushes hedging the diner's lot. Her interest is perked by some rustling within the leaves, though you suspect it to be a bird. You can feel the growing discomfort emanating from your partner; he hops off to accompany Too-Ticky.

Finally, she calls out, "Mind peekin' out to explain yer business, dear?"

She's not talking to either of you. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle and you exchange a look with Snufkin.

The rustling ceases.

Too-Ticky isn't dissuaded. "Come now, don't think we're blind! I noticed you a couple'o stops back eyein' us — I suspect you were the one sneakin' around our tent too. Yer persistent, I'll give you that much!"

"I think we should just go," Snufkin tries, but he's ignored.

"Now I understand if yer stalkin' us for a kill, but surely you would'a done so back at the camp? We were quite exposed then," Too-Ticky stuffs her hands into her jacket's pocket, nonchalantly, as she speaks. "And ye' hardly touched our own guns n' savings — you want something else, don't you?"

"Too-Ticky, what—"

"I can tell yer not one of them, much too young n' bitty—"

"_BITTY??_"

If you were any less sophisticated you'd have tumbled right off your seat, scrambling over yourself in shock that Too-Ticky's seeming-rubbish actually elicited a _response_. Snufkin makes a show of jumping straight back; if he were a cat you'd imagine him with a bushy tail and back fur all arched up.

A girl pops up from the bushes, glaring at Too-Ticky. She makes a show of stepping out of her hiding spot with tremendous effort, tripping over her own boots, and that's when you see the half-full bottle she's clutching in one hand and realize, _ah._

"Perhaps if you lot weren't so _pathetic_ and running around in circles like chickens with their heads cut off, then maybe you wouldn't find yourself so easy to track!!" the girl snaps — or you _think_ it's a girl, but the height and round face contrasted with the alcohol and...yes, _sniper rifle_ on her back, is all throwing you off. "And I dare you to call me 'bitty' one more time — I'm probably older than both of your stowaway friends so treat me with some _respect_, madam!"

You eye the newcomer: her dress is scrappy and unkempt, a button-down beige that blends into the forestry around her. Behind the goggles on her forehead (for what purpose they serve you don't know) is a crown of angry red hair, tumbling in all directions through a barely-withstanding ponytail. Freckles scatter across her pointed nose, and you have that fleeting thought of how remarkably similar she looks to Snufkin.

"What exactly do you want, then?" Too-Ticky asks, as both you and Snufkin are caught in headlights, mouths ajar. "That weapon you got is intimidating, sure, but why not use it?"

The girl scoffs as she advances and rolls her eyes. "What, and have _that_ on my conscious?? You're all a bother and everything but I consider myself a tier above cold-blooded murder!"

"I'm sorry," Snufkin interjects, "who are you again?"

"Oh, shut up!" He flinches when she targets her glare at him. "And don't gawk at me like that! If it wasn't for you having the nerve to try and get our mother involved in your charades then _I_ wouldn't have had to step in and intervene! And to be fair I think I've done you more good than anything, so you're WELCOME!!"

"_Our_ mother????"

The girl swings her arms up in an exaggerated bout of frustration. "Give this lad a medal, ladies and gents! YES, you dunce, _our_ mother — the mother you're trying to get your dirty little claws on and drag her into something that is solely on your _father's_ hands!!"

"I—"

"Um, hello?" you attempt to calm the situation with an awkward wave at the girl, veering her attention elsewhere. "Hi, terribly sorry to interrupt, but—"

The rifle strapped around her shoulders swings forward and you yelp as it's pointed in your direction and you shield your face with your arms; a popping noise booms through the lot and you realize that she's aimed and shot for your front tire. It makes a sad whining noise as it deflates.

"I wasn't finished speaking!" she snaps, flinging the gun back overhead and taking a large swig of her bottle. "God— honestly it's been the _worst_ stalking you around all day every day, you know that? And you're welcome for starting that bar fight, by the way?? Nice clean getaway brought to you by yours truly since you can barely stand on your own feet."

"The bar— that was you??" Too-Ticky raises her brow.

"Yes! You think I'll have my bastard of a little brother killed for no reason by a bunch of bumbling pricks just because he can't recollect daddy's money??" The girl takes another gulp of her drink until it's empty, then shatters the bottle onto the concrete with such force it has you all bounce up with shock. "_Ugh_, that felt good. I've been wanting to get that off my chest for _weeks._"

"I..." You turn back to Snufkin; he's barely budged a muscle since the girl started her rant. You make your way back over to him, with lilly-soft steps so the girl wouldn't whip out her rifle again, and give him a small pat on the shoulder.

Too-Ticky has approached the girl who's now crouched on the floor, looking very exhausted all of a sudden and perhaps a bit sick. She kneels down and asks, "Feelin' better?"

The girl grumbles, "Maybe."

"That's good," Too-Ticky rubs the girl's back, minding the gun and the — _what the fuck is she doing with a gas mask??_ "What's yer name?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Well, I'd like to address you properly, if you don’t mind."

After a minute, the girl mutters between gritted teeth, "My."

"My?"

"_Little_ My."

"Your name is Little My?" you say. "I thought you didn't want to be thought of as little."

"That's just my _name,_" she huffs, standing back up with a wobble in her step, "not my personality."

Snufkin snaps out of his trance with a bugged look in his eye. "You said you were my sister??"

Little My just rolls her eyes again. "Oh, for crying out— _yes_, hello Snufkin, wonderful to meet you, blah blah blah. Mymble mentioned your stupid excuse of a plan and I was just _dying_ to meet you. There." She plants her hands on her hips with a huff. "Now that that's all well and good, how about you all just skedaddle and leave my family alone?"

"Your...is that why you..." the pieces click as you run your gaze along your newly-flattened bike tire, "were you responsible for crashing our motorcycle?"

She chuckles. "Well, I didn't have to do much, the thing is so busted, but...yes, I did have a hand in that. Quite fun! Good target practice."

"You mentioned the name 'Mymble'," Too-Ticky butts in. "If I may, are you related to...?"

"Ugh! So many questions!" Little My groans. "_Yes_ I crashed your bike, _yes_ I'm your sister, _yes_ my mother is Mymble—"

"_The_ Mymble??" Too-Ticky exclaims.

"Could you stop interrupting me please!!" she snaps. "I thought you all wanted to know what I wanted but apparently that isn't a priority now, and you all just want to talk my ears off and expect me to run off and leave you be _that_ way!"

"You...want me to not get close to our mother," Snufkin conceives.

"Obviously not!"

"So I won't, then."

Everybody pauses. You give Snufkin a hesitant squeeze from where you're still clutching him, as Little My stares bug-eyed at her alleged sibling. "What?"

"I won't bother her," Snufkin affirms, giving her a tired but firm eye. "You're right, my— Mom should have no hand in this, and me asking her for help or money is only going to get her involved in a game she shouldn't partake in" (you notice Too-Ticky open her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it) "and I think the only person that deserves to get his hands dirty in this line of work is the one who started this in the first place."

"Your father," you say.

"Exactly."

Little My gives a 'hmph', crossing her arms, but despite her unfriendly manner...she _does_ appear more complacent. "You swear not to cross our mother."

"I swear. So please stop flattening our tires?"

"Well, I can't guarantee that, but..." She thinks a moment. "Once you pay off these thugs, all should be well and good?"

"I'm hoping so, yes."

"Well then," you haven't seen her grin yet, and you decide that with all her teeth showing it looks more like a snarl, "count me in."

Too-Ticky perks up. "Yer serious?"

"Sure! I mean, dunno if you've noticed, but you need someone in the shadows to keep you on the straight and narrow," Little My explains. "And sniping down enemy vehicles _does_ sound pretty enjoyable. Plus, it'll let me know that you keep your promise."

You frown. "I don't know..."

"Oh please, I'll sleep on the curb so you two can keep hooking up in the motel rooms."

"I didn't MEAN—!!"

"Okay." Both you and Too-Ticky turn to Snufkin in shock. He nods at his sister. "You can come with us. You're right, we need the extra protection."

Little My gives a toothy grin. "Great! I call shotgun on the bike."

"Absolutely not," Snufkin argues, hooking an arm around your own. "I already called shotgun."

You'd respond with a witty comment of your own if the possessive affection didn't leave you all wheezy. Whatever expression you carry because of the gesture, it has Little My faking a gag. "Ugh, SPARE me!! Fine, I'll ride with, uh..."

"Too-Ticky," she smiles. "I'm surprised you don't have your own ride since you followed us all the way out here!"

"Heh, that's me: full of surprises."

As the girls get to idle conversations, Snufkin gestures over to the tire and you droop at the sight. It _is_ nice that you received a new party member (who's still tipsy, mind), but you’d hoped for someone a _bit_ nicer. Just your luck, it seems.

-

The moment you slammed down your findings onto the dinner table, you could've heard a pin drop from somewhere outside. It felt as though you'd intruded into this tranquility your parents fought so long to provide and trampled over it with peeling back the truth; it was ugly and you felt ashamed, but you were rightfully angry and had every reason to hang these storm clouds into the air as your parents froze under your seething.

They told you nothing you wanted to hear: that they were protecting you and they didn't want you to think any less of their past— and you'd laughed but it wasn't funny and tears were pouring down the more angered you allowed yourself to feel.

Your father, a criminal, and your mother his accomplice, his _enabler!_ Who was truly the worst here?

The fight that ensued after your avalanche of screams are disjointed in your memory; you remembered your father being awfully upset when you listed off his specific crimes: drug-trafficking, tax fraud, something called _loan sharking_, potentially _murder??_ Pappa insisted this was just _past_ incidents and should be treated as much — he had regrets, of course, but what could he do about it now?

You stared at him incredulously. "Go to _jail??_" you'd screamed.

You can recall how contorted your father's face became at the thought, and although Mamma scolded your tone of voice, you were much too furious to care. So you were right about these men being after more than Snufkin's debts; they must have caught wind of your parent's whereabouts when their main target was out of their grasp and they proceeded to dig deeper. And truly, could you blame them for being so angered? Jesus, murder convictions are so much more severe than tax fraud, and somehow your father had committed _both!_

As your throat became too scratchy from demanding to know _why,_ you read the room and realized that you were unwelcome. Mamma clasped her washcloth between her hands in a death grip, and your father wouldn't look you in the eyes. You felt awful; you shouldn't have said a thing. But with these people closing in on both sides, wouldn't it have spilled out eventually? Or would your parents have kept up their innocent façade until you were six feet under?

Wordless, you fled up the steps and made sure your footsteps stomped into the wooden staircase. You nearly toppled over Snufkin who was clearly eavesdropping from the banister but you were much too upset to care whether he heard or not.

You found yourself curled on the rooftop, where you'd sneak out the window to meet Snorkmaiden on dates, or when you and your family would stargaze back when you wanted to be an astronaut. The world had jumped from being sharp enough to be a bad dream, to suddenly being much too real. Your hand scratched into your hair and face, as though it'd claw out all these bad feelings and convert things back to normalcy, back to ignorance.

As you were rubbing your eye sockets a bit too snugly on your folded kneecaps, a hand materialized on the small of your back; it was wooden, uncertain to move, and the fingers were much too delicate to be either of your parent's.

Snot poured from your nostrils and you sloppily wiped it off by your shirt-sleeve. "'M...sorry," you croaked.

The fingers begin to scour over your muscles, light as mist, as though he was scared to break you.

"You shouldn't have seen any of that," you continued. "It was rude of me...to yell like that."

"You were right to yell," Snufkin answered. "Don't apologize for being mad."

"I just—!" You gave a wheezy laugh towards the stars. "They expected me not to find out?? How long were they planning to _lie_ to me?" Your fingers dug into your face as more tears squeezed out. "For so long I thought...that we were _better_ than everybody here, but now I know we're just as awful — if not more than!”

You turned to Snufkin: he was halfway out of your dormer window nestled between the red roof tiles, protruding so you could look out upon the the town from your bedside. "That was petty of me, wasn't it? To believe that I was any less guilty than anybody here."

Snufkin frowned. "But _you_ didn't do anything wrong."

"Well, neither have you!" you snapped. "And look where we are!"

It wasn't the right thing to say, you knew this the moment you said it; Snufkin withered backwards and removed his hand, eyes lowered. You made to say 'I'm sorry', but somehow it wouldn't come out and you just threw your gaze back to the neighboring houses and shops. It wasn't a spectacular view, in your opinion, but if you peeked between the buildings you could see snippets of the fields and gardens enclosing your town; further observations would have you gazing at the mountains beyond.

You unfolded the photograph that was still hidden in your pocket; you hadn't dared show it in front of Pappa, just in case he got mad enough to snatch it out of your hand and never give you another chance to investigate it. You looked at the men in thought, your stomach still churning. With the validation your worst fear now held, the blank-faced men gave you full-body chills.

"What's that?" Snufkin asked from behind.

"A photo from the attic," you said. "I found it in all the newspapers. It's my dad with...I'm guessing the other members of his gang?"

"May I see?"

You had no reason to shelter away your father's secrets anymore; a wave of bitterness coiled over as you handed the photograph off for Snufkin's viewing pleasure. He looked at it for a moment and his face began to grow dark with curiosity. He flipped the picture back around to point at one of the men.

"You said your father knew these men?" His tone was odd.

You shrugged. "Yeah, I guess? The papers mentioned some 'Oxtra' mob or whatever so I just assumed those were the members? I haven't bothered to ask."

Snufkin's finger pressed onto the second-tallest men in the photograph: you hadn't paid him much attention the first time, but he was black-haired with the ghost of a beard, clearly unshaven. His eyes were the most unnerving of the group, with sharp blue eyes that pierced daggers into your soul. His hands were in his pockets, appearing the most nonchalant of the men.

"Would he know who this man is?" Snufkin pressed urgently.

You looked at the man, then Snufkin. "Uh, I guess, why?"

"That's my father."

If you were close to fainting off the rooftop before, you would've definitely done it then had you lacking any more dignity. You blinked rapidly, lost in the throes of your shock, as yet _more_ puzzle pieces began to find their spacings in your brain. You wanted to say, _Of COURSE he is,_ but that might sound a little rude.

"You're certain?" you said instead. Snufkin nodded.

"It _has_ to be, I've only seen his picture a couple of times but his eyes are..." He shook his head again, knitting his brows like he was internally at war with something. "Is there any way we could learn of their names? Perhaps in one of those papers you said you found?"

"Er, yeah? But I remember reading some of their names, is your dad's name...Hodgkins or something?" Snufkin shook his head, so you continued, "Um, I think another name was Joxter—"

Snufkin's eyes widened. "That's it! That's my father, certainly. It _has_ to be." He jumped off of where he was seated on your bed to tumble over himself to join you; his hand still held the photo and didn't intend to release it. "This explains so much! Why they were so eager to chase me into this town of all places — surely it isn't coincidence that we've met!"

"I-I guess not—"

Snufkin's stare became hard. "We have to leave."

"Wha—?"

"Moomin, _think_ about it. Obviously they want us in one place where we'll be easily cornered — our fathers have both wronged them and they're clearly after us over them — for what reason I don't know but I don't intend to find out." His hand grabbed yours. "The moment we're out of their sights the moment we can start rationalizing and deciding what to do. But we can't stay here, it's too dangerous. Let's leave tomorrow morning, when both of your parents are asleep—"

Loathe as you are to shrug away from Snufkin's grip, you do so. You were backing away from your friend, overwhelmed by the thought of leaving because sure it's a nice _fantasy_, but surely it isn't that simple! Besides, his eagerness to depart was something disturbing. "Snufkin, I-I can't! I can't just _leave_—"

"Sure you can!" Snufkin scooted closer. "Your friend only needs to make a couple more adjustments to the bike but surely there's another stop close by, so we can just drive out there and get what we need fixed and we can get back on the road—"

"But where will we _go_??" you exclaimed. "You said the men would just keep following you around— you think they're going to stop once you have _me_??"

Snufkin paused. He fell back onto his knees.

"Snufkin, I know you want to leave," you tried, "and once you're able to I won't stop you...but I can't just leave everything behind no matter how angry I might be with my family right now. If these people are as ruthless as you're saying, then they _need_ me! I can't just run off at the drop of a hat, I know you might not understand, but I have a home here. Even if the home is...broken, and maybe a little bit bad comparatively, it's still mine and I want to protect it."

Snufkin leaned forward again; he got so close to your face that the bridges of your noses were almost touching, his breath hot on your face. You at first presumed he was making a move and that surprised you, given the atmosphere, and your cheeks became flushed. His lashes were long and there was a faint sprinkle of freckles across his upper cheeks; if you stared hard enough you swore there was starlight glowing from his hazel eyes.

"You're not responsible for what your parents have done," he whispered. "It's not your job to protect them from what they deserve."

You gulped. His stare was adrift but his voice was low, commanding. You thought that he could demand anything in this moment and you'd be obligated to provide it.

Snufkin withdrew and got to his feet; his stance was straight and unbothered by the height, unlike yourself.

"I'm going to go find my father," he decided. "If you don't want to come with me, I won't make you. But I'm leaving at six tomorrow morning if you wish to join."

He climbed back through your window, leaving you with many thoughts to unravel. You gazed back up at the stars and planets, wishing that they would provide you with some sense of direction you couldn't give yourself. Your soul felt torn in two, like a wet piece of paper, as your gaze went onward but your knees dug into the roofing. You were still angry, but you couldn't decide what to do with it.

The stars left you to figure out your next method of action — and, while it was a ridiculous plan concocted on pure adrenaline and spur-of-the-moment resolution, it was better than nothing.

-

Little My and Too-Ticky haven't returned to the room yet, but you're not too bothered about it. They mentioned something of a 'girl's night', and you've no clue what that would include but you assume Too-Ticky has a few questions for Little My, based on her reaction on learning about Mymble. Maybe — and you hate that you're thinking this way, but... — they could swindle some junk food from a gas station and bring some back for you and Snufkin. At the least a decent toothbrush.

Snufkin's been eager to make use of your alone times, knowing how quickly they can be stolen away. And sure, you're quite tired from having your butt on the cycle all day, but Snufkin deserves something nice. And maybe you do, too.

He kisses like the world is ending, and maybe in some private corner of his mind it already has. You know you certainly can't reverse this resentment _you_ feel for your home, and you doubt you'll ever fit into old patterns again since you've outgrown them. You try to find new routines and sanctuary, carving maps with your fingernails into your partner's skin; your heart opens when he hitches a breath and loosens under your touch. It's temporary, and it's not a feeling you prefer to chase often because you fear its fleeting nature. But for a moment, it's home.

It's something.

After, you stare up at the ceiling making shapes out its texture, soon finding interest in a fly's journey circling around the room. You're much too exhausted to cover up your body with the covers and Snufkin hogs them anyways, so you just lie on your back with your fingers knitted on your abdomen, your torso exposed to the air blasting from the vents.

Snufkin hasn't turned off the light yet so you presume he's either passed out from the afterglow or he's still awake. You begin talking. "Do you think any of this is worth it?"

At first there's no sign that he heard, so you bask in the solitude. But Snufkin shuffles so he can look over his shoulder to where you're laying. In the soft light you see the blotchy marks forming along his collarbones, his neck. You feel a twinge of regret at the sight; Snufkin doesn't appear bothered by them.

"How do you mean?" he asks.

You sit up amongst the stale pillows provided, trying not to become self-conscious about your rolls compared to your partner's skimpy physique. "I mean, let's say at the end of all this we get a big reward — like money, or, I don't know, some medal of recognition for our efforts...what would you like to come out of this?"

Snufkin doesn't think for very long. He gives a shrug from beneath the covers. "I'd rather just be left alone," he decides briskly. "Surviving another day is good enough for me."

You gaze at him sidelong. "Is it?"

"Yes." His tone grows firm. "Not dying is plenty rewards for my efforts and when I find my father to sort this all out I'll be left alone. Like I want to be."

He turns away, but he doesn't make to turn the light off either so you don't think the conversation is truly over. From how stiff his shoulders and spine have grown, it comes across as a safeguard for his true thoughts.

This isn't the ideal form of pillow talk, you'll admit that. You lower yourself back onto the mattress and stare back up at the fly buzzing about. Your mouth wears a tightly-woven frown; you say absently, "I think I'd like a cottage."

Snufkin shifts some.

"One with ivy around the walls, and a chimney that's always puffing out smoke," you continue. "Honestly I never really liked the bustle of my town, I'm more into the countryside. I want a garden in the backyard, so I can plant fruits and veggies without always running down to the market. And a really old TV set, like my friend has in her room. But I'd only play nightly sitcoms on it — probably the really cheesy ones my parents watch in the living room — and I might get a cat or something so they could watch it with me."

You twist your head to stare at the rippling muscles along Snufkin's back, how they flex with his breaths and how stiff he appears to move, like a single gust of wind would destroy him.

"What about you, Snuf?" you ask. "What kind of life would you like when all this is over?"

You watch his spine prod from beneath his skin, with him holding a breath he doesn't release. Finally he murmurs, "I wouldn't want a house."

"No?"

"No." He finally props himself up to gaze down at you; you admire the shadows along his cheeks and nose, dipping down into the sharper dips of his neck and ribs, the curves of his breasts hardly soft and supple but still as remarkable and attractive. You think if you were in a more conscious state you'd fish for poetic terms to describe this ethereal, handsome form he's blessed you (and presumably, only you) with. His eyes are sharp against the glow of the lamp behind him, his features highlighted as though a paintbrush dipped in gold has been stroked along his edges.

"I think I want a life like I have now — no destination or family, no anything to tie me down, just a bed under the stars and a run-down motorcycle to get me from place to place." Then he airily laughs. "I mean, without people trying to kill me at every turn."

You chuckle too.

Snufkin settles forward on his knees. "I'd come to visit you, though," he murmurs. "In your cottage, I mean. I know a thing or two about making jams and such. And I may not like television, but...I suppose I can watch some shows with you. I'd give that life a chance, but only for a moment."

You smile up at him. "You know you'd always be welcome."

Snufkin gives you a ghost of a smile in return. He opines, gently, "When all this is done, let's...do something together. Not just sex, but...maybe a date or something. Like what normal people do."

"We'd have to leave our weapons outside the door, if we want to be normal."

"I'd accept those conditions."

"Okay. It's a date, then."

"Okay." Snufkin casts you another small grin; it marks the beginning of something that makes your chest feel more alight than it's felt in weeks. It's a declaration of a life after this nonsense, and it's a promise you intend to keep. You stuff away this moment like a cherished photograph and decide to remark on it later.

He settles back into bed and this time he does turn off the light. You return to your ruminations, processing many things and yet nothing in particular.

Then, a hesitant: "You can...come over here, you know. It's a bit cold."

It's an invitation you're very excited to receive; truthfully you'd wanted to ask but you hadn't wanted to push anything. Immediately you tuck yourself into Snufkin's backside as best you can manage, propping your chin into his hair and having it tickle your nose. Your fingers thread over his stomach and right beneath his breasts, giving a happy sigh into his hair.

You fall asleep not long after that, with your partner following suit in a similar post-coital haze.

(You'd forgotten to stay awake for the girls, but you doubt they'd mind.)

-

You packed everything that you could fit into your biggest backpack and fled out the door before Mamma woke up to make breakfast. You felt bad enough to leave a note explaining your absence, but it was curt and flaccid, hardly like yourself. You were in too much of a hurry to rewrite it into anything nicer.

Snufkin’s eyes brightened when he saw you fully-equipped and ready to roll; you stepped into the early morning gloom with dew sticking to your hair. A wet fog covered the alley and transcended into the sky above, making it indecipherable what today’s weather would hold.

“You look so stiff, Moomin,” Snufkin laughed, analyzing your outfit of choice. “Have you packed your entire house into your backpack?”

You felt a stab of defense — you thought you packed accordingly and with haste! And your trademark blue flannel and white shirt was an _excellent_ choice for a life on the road, thank you very much! They were all clean from Mamma’s previous bout of laundry, too.

(You’d tucked Snorkmaiden’s locket beneath your undershirt so Snufkin wouldn’t comment on it, or worse: force you to leave it behind altogether.)

You scrunched up your face. “Well, you look like a homeless robber,” you countered.

You didn’t remember ever owning a long green coat with brown patches sewn on the outer elbows — though it did look old — but you were sure that Snufkin helped himself to whatever hand-me-downs he could find collecting dust in your closet (or attic). His grey shirt was much too big where he had to tuck it all behind a steady belt (with a gunslinger attached, sigh), and come to think of it…his black jeans, although ripped and worn, were _way_ too tight to have ever been yours, even in your middle school era. And you never owned a yellow bandanna — it wasn’t your color.

A part of you wanted to ask where Snufkin had even found these items. But a part of you, also, remembered ‘his’ motorcycle’s origins and you didn’t want to know.

Besides, Snufkin looked like he took your failed insult as complimentary. He swung back around to ensure all his luggage was strapped in and safe, then gestured for you to bring your things over. He began fishing through your things despite your initial complaints, even fully-discarding items because he didn’t want to test the bike’s capacity. 

You impatiently tapped your foot against the gravel, peering around every now and again like your parents would jump out and ask what on earth you were doing. Some heat began to build in the air and made the dew cling to your exposed arms; it was bound to be a hot one today.

_Finally,_ Snufkin declared that it was time to go. Your previous fuck-all adrenaline was dying out and you really wished you could retreat back inside and dive under your covers, and wait until Mamma woke you up for breakfast, and you could pretend that things were normal again.

But you couldn’t. And you’ve chosen to leave, even if you were trembling when Snufkin rushed over and took your hands. His eyes gleamed like all the stars of last night were pooling in them; you wanted to make constellations out of his freckles.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered excitedly. A dangerous grin stretched his face and he looked giddier than you’d ever seen him.

You took your place behind him, awkwardly straddling the seat and wallowing in the discomfort that emitted — this would definitely make your butt sore later. He commented over his shoulder that you were headed to the Snorks’ automotives one last time just to assure it would be stable for a few more miles. You’d just nodded, feeling like you being verbally marched into your own casket.

You didn’t look back when you sped off to the shop. You think that perhaps you should have, it might have been courteous.

Even though it was early, Snorkmaiden did come out after several poundings on her door, though she was obviously displeased about your company. You explained what you could without feeling like Snufkin would get mad at you for oversharing; she eventually got to business after a lengthy groan, much like her, and a sad gaze that plastered her expression for the rest of the hour — unlike her.

You made her swear not to tell anyone you were leaving. She swore, reluctantly, and informed you that the motorcycle wouldn’t collapse or anything but it still needed some tiny modifications just so it wouldn’t shut down like it had again. Snufkin thanked her, and you paid her; she swept you into a tight hug before you walked out.

“_Be careful, Moomin._” Her whisper was more broken than you’d ever heard it. She didn’t try to stop you, though; her hands lingered on your sleeves before she turned away. You’d promised to call before Snufkin said you had to go. She crossed her arms, her bangs spilling over her features so you couldn’t see her eyes, but her mouth was crumpled and you knew she was about to cry.

You’ve already overstayed your welcome. With an weighted heart you reunited at Snufkin’s side.

“You know where we’re going, right?” you said. “You said you wanted to find your father, so do you have any idea where he might live?”

Snufkin looked at you like you were speaking a second language and speaking it very poorly. “Of course I don’t, but we have a lead now,” he pulled out your father’s photograph from his pocket and handed it back to you, “My father might have a bad reputation, but at least he’s _known_. We just need to find someone that knows who he is or maybe whatever this Oxtra gang was, and we’re sure to find where he’s hiding.”

You frowned. “And if he’s in a different country?”

“Then we’ll go to that country! That’s the beauty of having a plan only outlined: there’s plenty of room to improvise.”

“But what if we— we come across—”

Snufkin looked at you sidelong. “It kind of sounds like you’re talking yourself out of joining me, Moomin.”

“N-no! No, that’s not it, I just…” You sighed and stuffed away the photo. “I want us to be careful, that’s all. Especially you, Snufkin. I…I can’t having you get hurt again, especially if I was there I’d…feel so guilty.”

Snufkin was still frowning, but in lieu of a protest his face screwed up into something awful funny, and his cheeks were bright. (You wouldn’t know what emotion he was experiencing until much later, when you’d feel it just as strong.)

He whipped his head away and murmured, “You’re very kind to want to protect me, Moomin. But if that’s the only reason you’re here, I can handle myself just fine without you.”

There was an odious depths to his words you weren’t fond of; it had you itching with a dejection formerly unknown to you. You argued, “That’s not _just_ why I’m coming along.”

Snufkin didn’t turn around, so your tone raised.

“My father did a lot of bad things, and you were right: I shouldn’t be responsible for them. And I _want_ to stay, I think, because it’s safe to me. But I can’t just let you run around out there by yourself because _I’m_ just as guilty as you by their standards — and we should stick together out there!” You advanced so you could place your hands on Snufkin’s shoulders, encasing him in place.

“I’m not leaving you,” you promised, sober. “Where you go, I go. Okay?”

It’s a strong proclamation so early in the morning — and just as you were battling your first symptoms of homesickness — but it felt like the right thing to say. You worried over your ephemeral nature as soon as the vow spilled out, but one look at how it’d affected Snufkin and you realize that even if your promise was half-baked you wanted to swear to it forever, and make it real.

His face glowed red, with his embarrassment showing in how his lips folded tightly and he looked between his shoes. You realized you were gripping him too tightly and your hands flew to your sides.

“Should we, um, leave ?” you stuttered.

Snufkin nodded to the floor. “Yes.”

Snorkmaiden had long since retreated in her house so you couldn’t say goodbye again. Casting away you reluctance to the wind, you hopped onto your seat and watched your home cloud with the dust entailing your bike. When you looked to the sky, you were blinded by the sun; it would be clear today, perfect for sightseeing.

Instead you looked to the wheat and nettle billowing past in a mystifying, earthy blur.

-

According to the landlord, Joxter lives just above the fire escape. He says that the main issue would be coaxing the guy out of his room, should he answer the door at all.

Snufkin is unrelenting, though; he swings around the back alley to remark on the ladders climbing up the wall, right up to the window where his father supposedly resides. You'd hardly a chance to call out his name before he's well on his way up the first flight of steps. You notice that his gunslinger is loaded and tucked behind his long coat — seems that he's not taking any chances with his own father, which is fair compared to what you've heard about the guy.

You _want_ to be happy that you even snagged Joxter's address, but a part of you wants to wait out in the truck alongside Little My and Too-Ticky, who have already concluded this would end poorly (which was not what Snufkin needed to hear). But you know that your partner is too impetuous for his own good right now — whether or not he wants to admit it. You're the best guard he has should he thrust himself in danger; and who's to say Joxter is even there at all?

It's hard to remain optimistic, but maybe this _is_ a turning point. If lady luck decides to bless you at all during this journey you pray that it's here and now — maybe Joxter has a stash of money lying around and he can easily pay off his son's pursuers. Maybe life can revert back to what it was without repercussion.

Snufkin is waiting for you at the top as you climb up the ladder. You haul open the slightly-cracked window he gestures towards, and upon peeking inside your heart immediately sinks.

It's a madman's quarters: newspaper clippings strewn about, taped and pinned together along the walls with little rhyme or reason to their correlations. Black smoke hangs overhead and burns your throat with a strong stench, like what Pappa would smoke out back on his breaks. Uneaten, moldy dinner plates are strewn about every surface top. On the front door you spot of array of locks.

Snufkin isn’t derailed by the scene; he covers his mouth to choke on the air a second before springing into action. He looks around the room with his stance guarded but ready to pounce; you see his hands ghost across the gun near his back pocket.

You find him in the kitchen — and you can only recognize him by the crooked nose you've studied and the eyes so light that their pigments were lost in the photograph. His mutton chops are stronger and untamed than you remember, black hair matted and gross and you imagine he smells bad if you get too close. His cheekbones are roughly chiseled; he looks like he's had a rough several nights with an old razor and stopped bothering with it. He looks...hunched, and though it’s evident there’s physical strength corded beneath his undershirt it doesn't amount to the rest of his appearance.

The dish he's holding shatters to the floor when he realizes he has company. A gun is pulled and its barrel targets your forehead, which makes sense given that you're the largest figure and probably the most daunting.

Snufkin raises his hands alongside yours in surrender, but his confused gaze is identical to Joxter's.

"Dad?"

You don't like the look he receives for that one. Joxter's brow raises only _slightly_ and it doesn't match how wild his stature is: like an animal on it last legs being cornered, ready to strike in a final chance for survival.

The gun eventually lowers, after a gusty sigh from the holder. His glare on his son doesn't falter but there's a droop in his shoulders, and you decide he looks rather sad.

You're both lead to the living room — or the remnants of one — and instructed to sit as Joxter walks off for something. You look around, relishing in the magazines stacked around that serve as makeshift tables, because the coffee table is littered with used napkins and bottles and whatever else he absently threw on there. To your left, you can see a hallway that holds a double-barrel shotgun plastered on the wall: you can't tell if it's an antique or not; there's a label beneath it that you wish to read, but it's too far. To your right, there are more crime boards. Some old photographs that look like they could be family but they're overrun by the newspaper clippings and red string clips across their features. You wonder if Snufkin is up there, realize surely not, and then look over to see how your partner is holding up.

He keeps looking around, toes tapping and fingers wringing into the worn fabric of the sofa. You scoot closer so you can take his shaking hand, wincing when his nails pierce into your skin like desperate claws. His pulse pounds beneath your palms.

Joxter returns with a big bottle of what you perceive to be whiskey, but you're not that educated on drinks — the label looks old-fashioned but you don't know if that means anything. He crashes down on the seat parallel to the couch and pops the bottle off; the noise startles Snufkin but his father is unfazed. You run a thumb along one of his knuckles.

This is clearly not an important meeting to Joxter, nor does he attempt to feign professionalism, if he carried any at one point. A crooked demeanor, how he pours a drink like the action is second to breathing...none of this is reassuring.

He takes a long sip and gulps it down within seconds, then places the empty glass onto the coffee table.

"They've been looking for you."

It's a croaked rasp, and you wonder how long it's been since he spoke. It's also very steely, and at one point it could've been intimidating.

Snufkin can only nod. His grip on your hand tightens, releases, pumping blood into your fingertips.

"We're in a lot of trouble," is all he can say. Joxter makes a throaty noise and reaches for his drink again.

You provide a quick rundown of your situation (mostly Snufkin's) as best you can, finding yourselves tripping over one another as you recall the efforts it took just to get here. Snufkin becomes slightly more verbal throughout, from only providing side-comments to pulling out documents he'd carried all this way and shoving them into his father's hands. He points out their signatures, and their demands, and then shuts up, expectantly staring down Joxter as he recollects the pieces.

It gets quiet again; you think you can hear the whine of an old tune from a room over, or maybe from the next apartment. Snufkin awaits his father's response. Squeeze, release.

Joxter is unresponsive, deathly so. He sets down the papers he's been handed and reaches for a new bottle on the table, having downed the first one during Snufkin's spiel. 

You know the answer before it's even spoken, but there's still a heavy thud in your heart when Joxter says, "I can't help you."

Snufkin rises out of where he's slumped into the couch, abandoning his grip on your hand. "What??"

Joxter shakes his head. "I can't help you," he repeats, "their objective might be money, but there's also revenge: you're my son, so the best way to get to me is to ruin you."

"But the money—"

"No human alive could ever muster up that much cash," he says. "It's a heavy-handed blow to land on someone like you and they did that so you'd be caught in their web. I know how this stuff works, that was my life for _years_. And I'm telling you right now that you can't get out of it by cashing in a check."

Your partner is shaking so severely that you set a hand to his rigid spine, his hands knotting into his pants. "But, paying off the debts _would_ help, yes?" you try, "Suppose you have some stacks lying around to give to us, or maybe you could...sit down and tell them that Snufkin isn't going to follow in your footsteps, or something like that?"

"Believe me, if I had cash on hand I'd give it to you," Joxter sighs. “But it's too dangerous for us to attempt reason; that's not what they're after. They're mad at me and you have to deal with it. I'm sorry."

"We're just _kids,_ Joxter!" Your voice climbs in volume and it starts him a bit —Snufkin is still frozen in place — but your mind is kicking back furiously at the prospect of all hope abandoned. "We can't— we can't keep running around like this! I don't want to know all of what you did and quite frankly I don't want to, but _please_ sir, we're low on rations and our bike is a mess and we...we need to go _home,_ Joxter."

Tears sting the rims of your eyes as your speak, your throat clogging, but you can't care right now: "We're so tired, and we're not old enough to do this forever, so _please_ get them off our case."

You hadn't realized you'd risen out of your seat, towering over Joxter as he gives you a watchful eye, unmoving. Your laments gradually wane as they appear to have fallen on uninterested ears.

"I'm sorry," he says again, with a scratchier tone than before as though he’s attempting a whisper. "There's nothing I can do."

Before the last sentence can fully escape his lips, Snufkin surges forward to accompany you standing, and aims a gun at his father's forehead. You're taken aback by the harsh, nearly-animalistic gleam in your partner's glare as he stares Joxter down like he’s a thing of prey.

“Snufkin—”

“_We’re not leaving this room until you give us what we ask for!!_” You’ve never heard Snufkin shout before, never mind raise his voice a couple octaves, so his scream that booms along the cluttered walls has both you _and_ Joxter at a loss for words a minute.

Joxter stares down the barrel of the gun with something of a tired expression, but he doesn’t reply.

“_You sick son of a bitch!_” he continues with a fury you’ve never seen him unleash. “You think you can just mope about and expect me to feel _sorry_ for you?? You never thought about anybody — me or my mother or anybody else, when you were out doing _god_-knows-what! And you want _me_ to consider _your_ feelings on the matter??”

You decide it might be time to intervene, but…

“You didn’t think about me,” Snufkin repeats, his voice dropping alongside his gun. “Does that make you regret what you’ve done _at all?_”

Joxter doesn’t respond.

“Snufkin,” you say, “that’s enough.”

He flings the gun away with such force it breaks something to your right; you worry the trigger would accidentally be pulled but then Snufkin throws a handful of bullets to his father’s feet: ah, so it was empty.

Joxter eyes the ammo, and then manages to look back up at his son. His opens his mouth and almost says something. Almost.

“Tell me where you keep your money.”

Joxter shakes his head. “I already told you—”

“I don’t _care_ what you’ve said!!” Snufkin snaps. “I wouldn’t hold a candle to what you have to say if my life didn’t depend on it!”

“Snuf, let’s go,” you beg. “_Please._”

He gives his father one last, long glare before stomping elsewhere, to the direction of where you heard the lowly tune: a bedroom, perhaps.

Alone with your partner’s father, you feel ants begin to crawl about on your skin. A hand finds your collar and begins to straighten it absently.

“Are you Moomin’s son?” You hadn’t expected Joxter to speak; you turn to where he’s still slumped over, but this time you see him thumbing something within his palms, something blue and old enough to have lost its shiny luster.

“Erm…” you dig your hands into your pockets. “Y-yes. Yes I am. Is it…that obvious?”

Joxter just shrugs; his plants an elbow onto the chair’s arm and rests his chin upon his hand. You can see now that the other hand is toying anxiously with a button. “I had a feeling.”

“O-oh.”

There’s a great slam in the room over, followed by what sounds like the opening and closing of either drawers or cabinets. You’d apologize for the impending mess on Snufkin’s behalf, but you feel like Joxter doesn’t care for cleanliness and it wouldn’t matter to him anyway.

“Take care of him, please,” Joxter says — he sounds…surprisingly soft, and maybe sad, if not entirely resigned. “You were right, neither of you deserve this. But if he’s anything like me, then…I want him to be with someone that makes him happy, even if that life is out of his reach.” He looks at you with those blue eyes— the ones that are just as sharp now as they were in your father’s photograph. “You’ll be good for him, I can tell.”

You think you were going to say something like ‘thank you’, but then Snufkin storms back out into the room empty-handed.

“Moomin, let’s go.”

You have a feeling that should you delay he’d do your head in, so you quickly scamper over to his side, minding the piles of garbage.

Joxter finally stands but Snufkin freezes him in place with a brewing glare. Joxter still attempts, “Perhaps let me—”

“I’d rather die than accept help from the hands of a lowly _coward!!_”

His words cut deep, and it shows with how Joxter slumps backwards; his gaze retreats into a brimming emptiness and you can see him still toying with the button trapped in his palm. You almost make to bid him farewell, despite, but Snufkin is yelling for you to join him outside on the fire escape and you turn away.

You’re panting by the time you reach Snufkin back at the truck. Little My makes to give a sardonic comment, but her smirk is ripped from her face when she sees her brother’s condition. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. When you make to place a hand on his shoulder he shrugs himself out of it.

(You do see him coating something beneath his jacket, paying particular mind to ensuring it stays out of your view. You have a good idea on what it might be; you can pry about it later.)

-

There were a few supplies you couldn’t thieve from around your house without making noise, so any essentials you could’ve picked up from Pappa’s study were left untouched. And Snufkin was bare on rations as well, which meant…

You’d waited outside, ‘guarding’ the motorcycle or whatever bullshit excuse you’d made so you could stay out of Snufkin’s charades inside the gas station. He showed you the pistol in question, explained that it was harmless and it would only be presented for intimidation purpose. He said he _needed_ you to be in this with him or you could find your own way home.

The way he said it was impatient and made it sound like _you_ were at fault for _not_ wanting to partake in robbery.

You thrummed your fingers along the speedometer, your elbows leant on the handlebars, as you waited for your partner to stop terrorizing some poor low-income employees.

As Snufkin was inside, you pondered on the road ahead: you had many road maps but in hindsight they were just lines on a grid, not producing the real thing that you saw before your eyes — even if the real thing right now wasn’t much but empty fields. But still, you hadn’t seen it before; the unknown was a fascinating thing because every blade of grass that whistled, every road sign pointing to impoverished store fronts, was _new_. You just wished you could appreciate it in better circumstances.

The anger didn’t dissuade, even out here, much to your disappointment. Although it’d only been a few hours, you knew this wasn’t a vacation: this was a proclamation of independence, even if you were riding right into the enemy’s jaws. But it was better than waiting around for the slaughter, like Snufkin had said; you wanted to pack everyone in your town in your backpack and take them away but the bike wouldn’t allow it.

Snufkin finally rushes out and you’re, somehow, able to start the engine and get back on the road. You tried not to think about the traumatized employees inside that had to stare down the barrel of an unloaded gun just so you could live another day. You hoped they couldn’t see your license plate through the cloud of dust you sped up on and coughed into.

Your shame lugged on your mass like dead, constant weight on your back. Truly, not the escapade you’d imagined.

You pulled over hours later, which was enough time to both brood and look outside your situation long enough to relish in the empty roads you traveled. By the time you swung your legs over to stretch them, you felt like that was more than enough time to come to some ideological conclusion about your family’s past crimes (and Snufkin’s recent one). You haven’t.

Snufkin seemed to catch onto your pained aura; he pulled down the bandanna covering the lower half of his face.

“I’m sorry if that upset you back there,” he said.

“Mm.”

This reaction bristled him. “What would you have done different, then?”

_Was he serious?_ You turned so rapidly that it threw it offguard, and your outrage was surely bleeding out of your gaze. “Well for starters, I wouldn’t have _terrorized_ some poor cashier into handing over money, no matter how desperate I might’ve been!”

Snufkin had the _audacity_ to just sniff at you. “I’m sorry that you’re offended by my actions.”

“You don’t—!” You huffed and pointed a sharp finger at his chest. “You absolute heathen, do you not have _any_ remorse for what you’ve done?? Last I checked, we don’t _rob_ people! I won’t stand for it for the rest of the trip, do you understand? I won’t!”

“We’re not out here on a ‘trip’,” Snufkin argued, “and if this is your first exposure to the outside world then I’m very sorry to have to tell you, but it _sucks_ out here. And right now you and I are in too much hot water to be upstanding gentlemen all the time, we _need_ to keep going.”

“And that’s all that matters to you?!” you snapped. “You’re going to justify the means for the ends?”

“Everyone does!”

“Most people don’t rob at gunpoint! You know what kind of people do that?”

“Stop—”

“People that are just as no-good and dirty as our own fathers, that’s who!”

“_Stop!!_”

Snufkin had brought his hands up to cup his ears before you finished speaking. His eyes were sewn shut as he cast you out of his senses, congesting his distraught.

Your anger simmered from explosive vibrancy into something more approachable. You sighed and your shoulders drooped forward, making a show of your newfound sobriety.

“Snufkin,” you said — he wouldn’t budge. You walked up and removed his hands, squeezing them in a rhythm: Sniff could get overwhelmed by the outdoors often and you’d had plenty of practice for tackling overloads.

Snufkin’s hackles decompressed over time. Slowly, you attempted, “We don’t have to be like them.”

He shook his head, his gaze firmly on your torso and refusing to perk up. “We don’t have a choice here. I was just trying to help.”

“Okay, I know,” you nodded. After a short pause, you added, “It’s okay to be scared—”

“I’m not _scared,_” Snufkin snapped — but there was a bite to his word and you knew you were on the mark — “I’m being rational. I don’t have time to be hung up on things right now— I just…we…”

He trailed off.

Your hands released his to cup his cheeks, guiding his forehead to the bridge of your nose. You breathed in steadily. You wished your heartbeat could drum into every inch of your senses in an attempt to blot out everything altogether. You could grieve for two, for now.

Snufkin melted in your touch as quickly as he drew away from it. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Well, when you decide to be scared, I’ll be here,” you said.

“Okay.”

You threw your thumb back over to the bike waiting for your return. “Shall we?”

“Sure.”

You took the handlebars this time around; although Snufkin likely knew where you were going (if you were going anywhere at all), you figured he’d just backseat drive and give you a pinch or something to direct. He couldn’t wrap his arms all the way around your middle, which was fine — but you reflected again, on how small Snufkin is. On how skinny he is, because he didn’t eat much except junk food. And how he thought he’d survive out here on his own.

You were being honest when you said you’d be here when he broke apart _when_ that would happen. Because you’d seen him vulnerable and you knew he had this terror boiling within. And you’d be there when it blew over; maybe that was why you promised to come along, Pappa’s past be damned.

Even when Snufkin couldn’t hold you properly, his face sunk into the back of your flannel. You sped off and he was quiet, his gaze seemingly on the gravel, while you looked to the mountains for him.

-

“He’s been out there for quite a while,” Too-Ticky comments over her burger. “Perhaps you should go check up on him?”

Over your own meal you just shrug. “I don’t think he really wants to talk to me right now,” you say through a mouthful of fries.

Parallel to your seat, Little My rolls her eyes. “Yes, but he won’t want to talk to _us_! You’re our best bet here.” She steals one of your fries in spite of your protest. “I’m sick of having him mope about his deadbeat dad, like, what did he expect would happen?”

“It’s only been a day,” Too-Ticky chides. “Give ‘im some time to come to terms — he really wanted things to work out between them.”

It _has_ been a day, but you’re still worried; last night Snufkin slept alone and you were courteous enough to sleep with Little My (in spite of her wet willies and other frivolous bedtime pranks), and he hasn’t so much as spoken more than few detached words to communicate. He went through similar nonverbal spells back when his arm was still healing, so you’ve given him the space he needs, but you can’t deny your own concerns — since you both are an item (or you presume you are), of course you want Snufkin to feel better as soon as possible.

Too-Ticky has treated you all for lunch at an actual restaurant in an attempt to lighten the mood, but Snufkin excused himself from a table right before the waitress came to collect your orders. It’s taken so long that Little My and yourself’s hunger became priority and you’ve ordered without him. Your stomach feels heavy over the encounter with Joxter and you can only munch on a few fries as you keep staring at the backdoor Snufkin exited.

Minding your footing, you step out of the booth. “I’ll go see if I can find him,” you elect, gaining an approving nod from Too-Ticky.

Little My just blows bubbles into her milkshake. “Don’t expect your food to still be here when you return, old man,” she says.

“’Old man’?” you repeat.

“Your hair is all silver and grey. You look older than my mother.”

“I think it’s a light blonde,” Too-Ticky hums. “And it’s very handsome.”

With heated cheeks, you mutter, “Whatever,” and make your way to the door. There’s no exit sign overhead, so you assume it’s not usually accessible for guests. You find that it leads into an alleyway stacked with items seemingly dumped from the kitchen. You hop over a pile of wood with nails poking out — this place could use a bit more renovations, but it’s definitely better than the other restaurants you’ve been to this past month.

The place is a pigsty: broken glass and overthrown boxes and splintered wood. It all centers around one figure huddled against the brick wall, rocking himself with his hands digging into the sides of his temple. He’s shaking badly and won’t look up when you approach.

In a wave of concern, you scurry over and huddle him into your arms, pulling his frigid body to your chest.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

Snufkin sobs.

The puppet of his own flared terror, he trembles as he clutches at your sleeves until his fingers bury crevices into your skin. He didn’t even build up from sniffles, he just opened his mouth and screamed out a hysteria that twisted your chest. He’s been nursing this back from the very beginning.

There’s a sensation of gross unfairness at your partner falling to pieces in your arms behind a run-down restaurant; you trace circles on his back and whisper little, meaningless nothings, like your parents would. You kiss his hair and cradle his neck, feeling your clothes become hot and wet from where Snufkin is crying into them.

He settles down, likely to assuage his withered vocals, but doesn’t loosen his touch.

“We’re going to be okay, Snufkin,” you lie. “I know it’s hard right now, but we really will be okay.”

He doesn’t move and you hadn’t expected him to — _you’re_ hardly moved by your vague comforts. You just hold him a while longer, adjusting him into your lap so you can wrap one arm around his middle at a better angle. Your other hand continues drawing along his backside.

“I was never happy,” Snufkin croaks, so tiny you have to strain to hear him. “I didn’t like how I lived. But at least— at least then I was _normal._”

“Hm.” You don’t know what else to do but let him talk, a stone rolling in your throat.

“But you…you make me so _happy,_” he laughs, here, and it dissolves into softer cries. “And I don’t know if it’s right but…I think this is what normal people want. To be happy no matter what. And isn’t that just— just the saddest thing, truly.” He sniffs thickly. “I want to think I’m happy with you or I won’t have anything else.”

You tuck him closer like you could burrow him in your heart and leave him there.

“I don’t think I was very happy, either,” you murmur.

Snufkin pulls away to press foreheads; you can see his gaze is still chipped and broken, his mouth bending into a smile that’s rough on all the wrong edges. He cusps your face; you bring your hands to his wrist to steady his touch.

“My dearest Moomin,” he says. “I brought all my troubles with me and roped you into them because I couldn’t leave you behind — the only person that ever made me feel wonderful. And, I’m sorry.” His mouth tightens and wavers. “I’m just like him, aren’t I? I know you see him in me, especially at my worst moments.”

“But that’s all they are, Snuf,” you insist, “they’re _moments_, they’re not the full picture.” You try to smile and it’s awry, but you cradle your words because they reign true no matter the conditions. “I wouldn’t like you so much if you were like him.”

He looks like he could cry again; you shush him and wipe away his tears.

“Let’s get you inside,” you murmur, “I can get you napkins so you can clean your face, and we can share a milkshake if you really want. Isn’t that what couples do together?”

His grip tightens. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. You still have to…teach me how to make jam, remember? I need to hold you to that.”

Snufkin laughs breathlessly. “In your cottage.”

“Yes.”

He wipes his nose with his gloved hand, looking away to peer down the alleyway. You follow his gaze to a trodden pile of old crates for vegetables.

Eventually you disperse and hold Snufkin up, which drives his jacket up to his belt and you get to see that your theory was proven right — his father’s double-barrel shotgun hangs by the strap on his belt.

You almost laughed at the sight, finding its presence a cruel irony. “Joxter’s gun?” you inquire.

“Well, he certainly wasn’t going to use it.” He sounds more upset that you’d caught it and not that he’d stolen it in the first place. But you’re not angry about it — you can’t find yourself to feel anything but Snufkin’s torment retracting into your own despair, but like waves they recede as you exchange a watered-down smile. He leads the way back in, red-faced and with eyes clearer with that delirious high which comes from temporarily crying out your problems.

The effects of the breakdown pass after some food in your system and a good night’s sleep, failing to have aided the past’s wrongs, and you being left to find your own closure.

But you wake in the morning with your nose buried in Snufkin’s hair, still smelling faintly of pine, and your own form of happiness pops to the surface, hugging him tighter. Had you left him behind and forgiven your family, you wouldn’t know what noises he makes when he’s half-asleep. You wonder if it’s a worthy sacrifice, these little moments on par with a bigger, more daunting picture of the mess you’re in.

\--

You realize something.

You decide forgiveness is just as fleeting as anything else you encounter — happiness and love, sorrow and bad nights — and you’ll measure everything as it comes to you, deciphering its weight far into the future when you’re away from all this awful things. When you’re in your imaginary cottage waiting for Snufkin to return in the evenings.

But for now you can only feel, because you won’t survive on being purely rational either. You feel this despair, this anger, and you relish in them because you’re surprised that with what you’ve endured you can still feel at all. And while Snufkin can rehearse forethought, you’re the heart and the peacekeeper amongst your tiny crew.

And you think that if your love could rush you away from these bad people and your father’s crimes, it would be strong enough to. But you have to work with this love, not the other way around, and so you meet its demands with haste in fear that it’ll vanish like sand between your fingertips.

Loves makes you realize that you can’t keep running; Snufkin might always have this itch to flee but your feet are trapped in tar, and you think that you’ll never be able to reach his own preferences of freedom so you must rely on your own. And it’s this love for Snufkin — and Too-Ticky and, yes, Little My too — that makes you stop in your tracks and reflect.

You can’t keep running in the opposite directions of your hunters — not without knowing their own drives, the specifics on what they want. Because your emotions are so short-term and their’s don’t appear to be; a half of you envies their seemingly-relentless drive, perhaps blinded by their goal, and that’s what has you looking over your shoulder to the cars and bikes that close in.

Little My has already successfully sniped out two cars and left them eating dust, but it’s not enough to stop them. They’re clean-cut, organized, and they want _something_. The problem is you don’t know what that something is.

You’re at literal crossroads: across the train tracks are Too-Ticky’s truck where she’s waving at you and _pleading_ that you rush in before the train comes. The crossing signals ring bells and flash red as they lower. Behind you, an army of anonymous figures. And you’ve planted yourself between both of these worlds.

Snufkin tugs on your sleeve so fiercely it’s sure to rip if he keeps going. “Moomin, what are you waiting for?? We have to _go!_”

The bike officially sputtered and died a couple of stops back; that was when all hell broke lose and your only way out is to cross these tracks and rejoin Too-Ticky and Little My — all waving hands and yelling at you to move.

You step back.

Snufkin is so shocked he nearly drops his hold on your arm. “Moomin—”

“We can’t keep going like this,” you say. “If we can find out what they want—”

“Moomin, _no,_ do _not_—”

“They won’t stop until they win—”

“You think I’m going to just _leave_ you with them?!”

“I just need to know, Snuf—”

“You said you would stay with me!” Snufkin’s scream pierces the heavens and for a moment the world falls silent to listen in; everything shrinks and it’s just you and him, the cars and train a distant echo. “You promised you would stay and you’d — you’d protect me—”

“I _am_ protecting you!” you yell back. “If they catch one of us then the other can escape!”

“You _don’t know that_!” He reaches again, reservoir of impatience running dry, and instead he opts for desperation; his eyes are battling back a flood of tears. “Moomee, _please_, please don’t think like that. I need you so much more than they do.”

The next minute feels preplanned by some darker, abject corner of your brain that somehow knew, all this time, that it would lead to this outcome. You feel like you’re watching from afar, through jagged crystal that makes the world look a bit too lopsided to be true.

“Okay,” you say, with a voice that doesn’t sound quite like your own. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay.”

Snufkin visibly sags with relief. Time limits be damned — they’ll catch up soon, and so will the train at precisely the right moment — he barrels headfirst into a hug. Your lungs asphyxiate as he steals the air from them; your arms wrap him in, robotically, with this warmth only an echo.

Love drives people crazy, you’ve heard it so often. And maybe that’s what it’s doing now, making the outcome look all honeyed so it can sugarcoat the brutal reality. But you embrace it, literally, because without it you’d have nothing.

You lean back to raise his chin with your forefinger, and you give a smile. Snufkin’s eyes widen with a creeping horror upon knowing you long enough to be unnerved.

“I love you.”

“Wh—”

The train flares across your vision and you know this is your only chance. You grip his shoulders and shove, kicking his legs off the pavement entirely and flying him into Too-Ticky’s arms — she crept closer during your little moment and catches wind of your schemes, and seems to be on the same page with how she locks Snufkin in her arms.

“_NO!!_”

The train whizzes past and the tracks tremble beneath its weight. The final image of Snufkin’s hand extended, his expression one of pure torment and horror as you’re left behind, sears into your corneas like the tendrils of a nightmare.

You stand straight up, hands at your sides so it can show you aren’t carrying any weapons unlike your friends. Mamma always said to hold up your shoulders for guests.

They caught up and stopped when they saw you staring at the train’s carts whizzing by; you must’ve not heard them, but you do hear the click of a pistol and feel its cold barrel against your neck, giving you goosebumps.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.” You don’t move, although you want terribly to turn your head and inspect your captor — his tone is offput, like he didn’t expect to be using them so soon.

Another comes to take you by the elbow and push you towards the awaiting cars. There’s certainly a lot of them, with faces looking like they’ve been carved from granite. Their touches aren’t any softer, but you suppose you should be counting some blessings — you haven’t been punched yet.

“Glad you finally came to your senses,” one hisses in your ear as you pass by; his spit dapples your cheek and you grimace.

Yes, you decide, love is nothing but trouble and it leads you to a fate at the hands of bad men, who probably look at your resemblances to Pappa and want to spit in your face. But this love hasn’t fled in weeks; maybe it never will.

You’d once feared that your love — and softness for things, like Snorkmaiden had said; you wonder what she’s doing at this very moment — would be one of transience and it wouldn’t cling, and it’d you leave you barren. But as the car door shuts behind you, locking you in this tomb, you think that this love was your sole accomplice in this endeavor, and it’s gotten you into just as much trouble as it has granted blessings.

You can only hope that now it will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> story title is from the song 'everyone up to the wall' by blackbird raum
> 
> comments and kudos help a lot but also ur not obligated to bc I’m not ur dad - but I’d love to hear ur thoughts on the series!
> 
> my moomin tumblr is honeyhedge


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